Too Late

Two a.m., I wake in a start, the ceiling light bright above me. Before I have the chance to open my eyes, the room is dark again. A sliver of light remains by the door; the end of an arm reaches through it to retreat from the light switch before shutting the door with a creak. I jump out of bed to pursue my intruder, but no one remains in the hallway. My roommate comes out from her room in confusion, I stare bewildered and search the apartment before retreating to my bed and staring at the wall for an hour. Someone was there. The light was on. I saw them.

He told me once of a presence by his bed, how clear it was, how there. He wrote all the falsehoods of a life and let them burn on foreign sand, he invited the devil in, let fear rage through the room and turned the lights on.

I woke late in the morning, pondering the ghosts of my muddled conscious. I wonder what falsehoods  thrive in the corners, what I would burn if I could. A small voice whispers, I strain to hear the words I'm not sure I dare see: What if there is no there, there?