If I move slowly enough,
breathing soundlessly against that black
void before me,
I can conquer this room
and the next.
If one hand remains
brushing against the stucco
passing over a lightswitch,
a picture frame,
a window with drawn shades,
the touch sense is amplified.
My eyes widen instinctively,
soaking in what it can
from the inky shadows
of the kitchen,
then the dining room,
and the hall.
The entire block
is asleep at this hour,
when the only sound is
the hum of refridgeration,
the pulse of voltage,
keeping this home alive.
I climb the stairway
on all fours,
skipping the few that creak.
Halfway up I turn back,
sticking a hand out
in front of my face,
peering and grasping into the darkness.
There are no ghosts lurking
behind the couch,
between the books on the shelf.
No sharp light
flashing curiously,
beckoning me
from the backyard.
As I ascend,
I close my eyes,
counting inhalations
Soon they correspond with another-
yours.
I slip into bed,
undetected even by the cats.
My hearing is still acute.
Soon I resign
to the weight of my corpse,
and realize,
you are sleeping alone.