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iamgone Mar 2021
the first thing i was able to remember
was the cold
maybe because it resonates today
with my soul
the snow fell around me dancing
in the air
my eyes frozen along with my body
forced to stare
the snowflakes were teasing me
with their ballet
and I was forced to watch them
as my light died away
  Feb 2021 iamgone
i cried everyday for you
i thought blue
was your favorite color
  Feb 2021 iamgone
I’m Not


iamgone Feb 2021
i am not a shell of a man
in fact
i'm looking for my shell
not having a body
means not feeling anything
and i find myself
missing the cold
iamgone Feb 2021
A hanging carcass
under the stairs
there is nothing
left for me to do
but rot
tell my family
i loved them
tell my girlfriend
that I'm sorry
I never told her
how beautiful she was
tell my soul
that left long ago
to come back
and tell the world
I said goodbye
  Feb 2021 iamgone
Jon Tobias
I’ve got plenty of ghosts I promised her. I leave them wherever I go.

At the house on 711 Ellen St there is the ghost of a dog named Hessa and a dog named Mac. They don’t play together, but they pant heavy, waiting my return.

There is the ghost of a cat named Charles. He chases a raccoon out of a busted window that my mother fell through.

There is the ghost of my mother pacing the living room, contemplating suicide.

When ghosts die, they become useful fire, burning as long as necessary, and then blowing out forever.

There is the Ghost of Louie, helping me fix my car. There are the ghosts of our tall cans crushed to the curb. There is the ghost of their fullness. Little drops that are left sit in the rim of the mouth.

Every moment makes a ghost. Every time you move something from stillness, there is a ghost for it.

When I come to see you, I will leave behind the ghost of laughter, the ghost of my warmth growing colder. Miss it if you want to.

There is the ghost or your taste in my mouth. Certain foods bring it back to life. I let the Bud Light sit on my tongue. I almost tasted it. Something is missing.

There is the ghost of your smell. It tricks me into craning my neck, eyes searching for you. There is the ghost of your smile which haunts me when the ghost of your smell tricks me into thinking you’re there.

There is the ghost of my cool breath dying on your neck, then dying again. The fire it becomes extinguishes quickly.

Behind your couch there is the ghost of a cricket. He has stolen a harmonica and plays only the high notes. Tell his family that he misses them.

There are the ghosts of apples that I skinned when I learned to make pies in high-school. I have made many apple pie ghosts since then. I will bring one to you. It will be a slow ghost. The steam rising from the middle is its spirit returning home.

Home is your chest. Breathe the ghost of my pie, the ghost of my cologne, the ghost of my eyes wet with poetry I have just read.

There is the ghost of poetry as it mixes with my breath and exits my chest. Let it die and die again. Let it haunt your heart, your belly, the back of your neck like a gentle hand.

I make graveyards. I make ghosts. I leave them behind wherever I go. I miss some of them. There is the ghost of my irregular heartbeat, when I feel the ghosts that I miss pass by. I breath slowly trying to feel them, but too soon they are gone.

Ghosts don’t stay long. I can stay long. Make ghosts in the meantime.

When I come to see you, I will leave you with ghosts.
iamgone Jan 2021
I remember it
like it was years ago
or maybe yesterday
snow falling around me
like the laughter
in my soul
my eyes finding refuge
in the fall upon my feet
tiny dancers
my reaction
or rather lack of
to the cold
i found myself
i found myself
and then i found
my eyes
wandering behind me
into the snow
finally taking notice
in the lack of footprints
that followed
my feet reaching nothing
but a shallow cry
and that's when I knew

the world would never see me again
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