Valkyrie
At the stroke of midnight
I hear her
in dead silence.
I wonder if she’s back from the dead
again.
She slowly sneaks under my sheets
on her hands and knees
with bed creeking
under her heavy eyes.
She doesn’t face me.
Or maybe she doesn’t dare to.
But need me? Yes, she does,
tells her shaky back
pressed against mine
corner to corner, curve to curve —
digging into my agile toes
are her cold feet
taped by fragile fears
of being alone tonight.
I hear her muffled cries, tears
as clear as water in Switzerland brooks,
gushing out like Niagara,
splashing at the brim of her eyelids,
flowing into a serene river
unfolding memories of
not very distant past.
Make it stop.
Make it stop!
MAKE IT STOP!!
She clenches her fists
holding onto something invisible
in thin air of that silent night
filled with nothing but smell of dead.
I don’t turn her side.
I do not want to disturb
the procession of her demons.
Who would dare to anger
the gods of dead
while they feed on living?
I stare at the window
hoping for a raven to appear
to prey on my disabled heart.
Pick on it, inch by inch.
Put me through the same misery
she is going through
beside me, while our backs are pressed
and feet tangled
feed on us, ravens and demons
together
not knowing where she begins
and where I end.
— Sonik
