Driving through the lot
I realize how it feels
to be a ghost,
haunting old haunts,
incapable of reaching you.

Time passes,
people age,
weight is gained and lost
around bones that creak.
Situations change, and yet,
there is this part of me
tender and raw, hard and fast
all at once,
which stays
the same.

Like a rabbit I catch your scent
on the crest of a wave
as it whispers into
the crescent of shore.
I realize perhaps,
you are a ghost as well,
like me.

But then, we always were
precisely the same.

My skin twitches,
wondering if you hear me think
I’m here, I’m here, find me!
wondering if for a moment
it would be tempting
to open yourself,
allow me to pass through you
with all the memories of all
the little deaths we died,
only to rise
and fall again.

Because, reunion always was
so sweet and savage.

We are lost,
and so I realize
what it means
to be a ghost,
with no beginning or end
that feels quite right,
slipping through night after night,
trying to bury bones
only to exhume them,
and turn them over and over
in my hands,
without a moment’s rest.


2 responses »

  1. Such a raw look into a doorway of memories. If you’ll pardon the expression, but this poem is hauntingly beautiful. I want to describe more, but my head isn’t finding the words, but I totally feel this poem in my marrow.

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