reflections

the eyes are accustomed to darknesses
tinged with the whites of distant phones
and the dab of orange from the street
stealing through that little crevice
between the curtain and the rod that holds it.
There is the occasional blueness of
computer screens of night owl roomies
who will unsuspectingly turn on
the lone light in the room.
The blitzkrieg of lethal sharpness pierces you
As eyebrows frown, lashes quiver, lids roll unto themselves,
through scrunched noses and clenched teeth
you yell for a belated warning.
Once he finds what he is looking for, the light is turned off.
A casual apology accompanies it.
And ghosts of light dance before you
with the clarity of a water color painting
barely retrieved from unexpected rains.
That is what life is like these days.
That was what love was like when it visited
All those years ago.
A flicker. Blinding light.
Then ghosts. Love runneth over.