by J. C. Runolfson

Beyond the windowpane, my lover sleeps.
I touch the glass, but do not sigh his name.
He's pale and sad, for it's his sorrow keeps
me here, but I cannot return the claim.
If I should speak, he'll wake to follow me
down into death, and part us evermore.
While he yet lives, we have this chance to be
as close as dreams; his death would close that door.
Two ghosts can't haunt each other, so we'd drift,
find other minds that mourn us, lose the bond
of love that holds me to his heart bereft.
I will not be a phantom to the fond.
So I balance his memory and pain,
leave fingerprints, but do not leave a stain.

J. C. Runolfson's work has appeared in Goblin Fruit previously, Lone Star Stories, Sybil's Garage, and Strange Horizons, to name a few. She is also an assistant editor for Flash Me Magazine. Most of her poetry is free-form, but she thought sonnets might be fun to try.

She reads online a lot, which means following interesting links from the reading list of her journal. Currently, she's also re-reading Barry Hughart's Bridge of Birds and the poetry of T. S. Eliot for comfort reading.

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