The Night

She comes without a warning, for it's not the absence of light.
I wished.

It's a gallery of the might have beens,
my own paintings down a hallway,
twilight of what I lavishly spent,
buying myself nothing but lessons still to learn,
mistakes I'm still eager to repeat.

It coalesces into faces, mostly one,
for that's the one that had been able to teach me the most,
but they shimmer and vanish,
leaving me with a subtle anguish,
a sweet torment,
a curse towards the arrow of time.

So I drink a glass of wine
looking for relief,
but finding only more vivid dreams,
more of what I have no guts to tell myself by myself.

I'm a coward, after all.