I am not myself.
At night, I hear the Salem witches of past,
Across centuries,
Across oceans,
Across time,
Call for my heart, inevitably always yours.
I hear them laughing
As their juju works their way through my defences.
I feel them rubbing the ancient herbs against
The bones of wild animals.
In the present, awake or asleep,
I see your face everywhere:
In moving cars,
In coffee shops,
On unsuspecting passing strangers,
Even in the mirror.
Years from now,
When the dust from our
Battle has settled,
They will dig up my bones,
And only find remnants of you.