On the edge.
Watering cheap printed flowers
on rough and itchy blankets.
He listens to the heart he no longer wants
dwindle and die,
like a car wreck right before your eyes.
Brings you down by your soul,
in all the ways you used to flow.
Brings you down by calling your grandmother through your cry,
through the years of forgotten sighs
and now you're begging to
be brought home.

Come here.
Heart flutter to this day,
remember cheeky smile,
sweaty hair and the way
he made your world sway.
By the front of your shirt,
he brings you down to his level.
Through the hardwood floor,
he brings you down past dignity left at the door.
On the ground you know,
he brings you down past the crust.
Doesn't stop there,
he takes you to the center of the earth.

Back and forth,
vacant eyes search for remaining worth.
Pavement of past and present,
places you'll never know.
Sadness fills the dreaded sky,
reminds you of a certain time.
Ask yourself why.
You'll dig.
You can dig for two, three,
maybe four.
You can dig until there is nothing more.
Every ghost has a reason,
yours often come like different seasons.
Your a ghost of regret,
a ghost of treading slow.
But you are a ghost,
a ghost that they will always know.