they are the least of your worries.
Personally I find the noises they make reassuring.
The creaks and footsteps in the night,
their little tricks of hiding things, or moving them,
I find endearing, not upsettling.
It makes the place feel so much more like home.
Inhabited.
Apart from ghosts, nothing lives here for long.
No cats, no mice, no flies, no dreams, no bats.
Two days ago I saw a butterfly, a monarch I believe,
which danced from room to room
and perched on walls and waited near to me.
There are no flowers in this empty place,
and, scared the butterfly would starve,
I forced a window wide,
cupped my hands around her fluttering self,
feeling her wings kiss my palms so gentle,
and put her out, and watched her fly away.
I’ve little patience with seasons here,
but your arrival eased this winter’s chill.
Please, wander round.
Explore it all you wish.
I’ve broken with tradition on some points.
If there is one locked room here,
you’ll never know.
You’ll not find in the cellar’s fireplace old bones or hair.
You’ll find no blood.
Regard: just tools, a washing machine, a drier,
a water-heater, and a chain of keys.
Nothing that can alarm you.
Nothing dark.
I may be grim, perhaps, but only just as grim
as any man who suffered such affairs.
Misfortune, carelessness or pain, what matters is the loss.
You’ll see the heartbreak linger in my eyes,
and dream of making me forget what came
before you walked into the hallway of this house.
Bringing a little summer in your glance,
and with your smile.
While you are here, of course you will hear the ghosts,
always a room away,
and you may wake beside me in the night,
knowing that there’s a space without a door,
knowing that there’s a place that’s locked but isn’t there.
Hearing them scuffle, echo, thump and pound.
If you are wise you’ll run into the night,
fluttering away into the cold,
wearing perhaps the laciest of shifts.
The lane’s hard flints will cut your feet all bloody as you run,
so, if I wished, I could just follow you,
tasting the blood and oceans of your tears.
I’ll wait instead, here in my private place,
and soon I’ll put a candle in the window, love,
to light your way back home.
The world flutters like insects.
I think this is how I shall remember you,
my head between the white swell of your breasts,
listening to the chambers of your heart.
"The Hidden Chamber", Fragile Things, de Neil Gaiman
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