THE ACHE

By Dorit D'Scarlett (Dark Poets Prize III Winner)

The door swells with the weight of midnight.

A sound—knuckles on wood—

soft as breath, insistent as hunger.

I do not move.

The candle guttered hours ago,

wax pooling like spilled marrow.

Still, the shape lingers beyond the threshold,

a shadow pressed flat against the grain.

I know what waits.

The long-fingered silence.

The grin stretched too thin.

The eyes—black pits where stars once drowned.

He does not enter.

He never does.

Not without invitation.

The wind howls through the keyhole,

his whisper curling with the draught:

Come see what the night has made of you.

And oh, how I ache to unlatch the door.

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