In the dead of night they come to you. "Your name" echoes and fades into the cold still air. A lingering plead. Ones you don't hear but feel. The type you can't see. The air pregnant with the scent of the thing staring, watching, waiting. Silent but deadly are the sins of man. They simply vanish like the moon turning into crescent. Red hot like an engine screaming through the night. The cozy atmosphere is gone. What lingers, creeps and crawls inside of your mind. The things you want to say remain hidden beneath the cocoon. Their voice is like pure silk. Made of spider webs that truly never end. A nightmare within a dream thrusting into consciousness. Only once you hear it, you can't stop. It becomes like a ritual, a lullaby. Never fully alone. Tossing and turning becomes a thing of habit. What would I say? What would I do? So many what ifs and Evers filling the gap of spaces between you and the thing in the night. A fog that never lifts its veil. I once wrote an ode to it. Now the tides have turned like a singing gymnast. Needles spinning in high altitudes. They'd be gone before I surrendered to the call. A name you once knew cascading down on you. What to believe becomes theatrical in the here and now. You don't even know what name they'd like returned. There's no answers, just more doubt clouding the threshold. A truth they aren't willing to share. Piano lines fading to a blur. A person you can't stay mad at. The night cripples my vocal cords. Just a heart exists in this body. One that still beats vividly.