I have watched leaves die,
fall to the earth to be crunched underfoot,
trees left naked, waiting
for another season to dress them
only for the leaves to die again, ad nauseum.
And, yet, it is always winter
in my heart and my steps heavy
like trudging through snow.
But there is never any snow
--never a winter wonderland--
just cold shivers, a resistance
to moving on.

Can a thing have a ghost
if it was never a living, breathing thing?
I am haunted by us,
not just by you, but the equation of you and I.
I am besieged by specters,
not just traces of your skin on mine or
the taste of your lips on my tongue or
the sound of your laughter around every corner,
but even by my own laughter chasing yours.
My own smile is a ghost, now;
as is my sense of peace.
I can see your smile in the sunrise, still;
see our own faces replace those
of people holding hands and embracing
as if I am the ghost,
some cosmic ****** peeping in our own life.
And all too frequently I am on my knees
screaming into dark days,
except they all feel like dark days
and even darker nights.
I shout out to whatever power is listening
to just bring you back to me
or exorcise me of these ghosts.
Shouting so loudly, so earnestly
that my throat goes hoarse
and I can't speak for days.

I’m covered in bruises and scars.
I’m not supposed to talk about it, but
I’ve started my own fight club
beating myself up over what
could have been done differently.
Could I have just tried even harder?
Could I have given more than my everything?
Could I have done anything to save us?
I have a new black eye.

Deep down, I know there is no finger to point;
we are not an earthquake, there is no finding fault.
It was not my fault.
It was not your fault.
It was no one’s fault.
We were a thrift store puzzle.
A used thing. An abraded thing.
Pieces were missing, torn,
some just didn’t fit.
Our picture would never be complete
and that’s just how it is, sometimes.
Neither of us are to blame—I know this.

Yet, I still can’t shake the what-ifs,
the spirit of our good times.
I am cursed.
But even if there was a number to call,
some sort of agency or team to come to my rescue,
where would these ghostbusters even aim
their proton guns and how much of me
would they take with them?
Do I really want all the memories of us erased?
Would a spotless mind pour sunshine onto my winter?

If only Doc Brown would drive up in his DeLorean,
I wouldn’t question the impossibility of his offer.
Despair pairs well with improbable hope.
I would certainly take that ride, risk
getting struck by lightning,
slamming into a wall at 88mph,
going back in time over and over, if need be
all so I could learn how
to fix an us that couldn’t be repaired.