boo.

i snuffed out the flame
yet a choking ember
persists on his end of
the candle.

he asks,
"why do you still haunt me?"

in his cerebral attic,
i am an apparition
for every new woman,
a spector imprisoned
by nostalgic purgatory
of which no sacrifice
but surveyed time
will grant the much needed rest
let alone peace.

i am not found in a flickering bulb,
i seek not to raise hairs;
i am the voice he calls out to in the night,
i am the reason for which
he still prays.