I suppose it’s best to speak of her now; her name only summons ghosts and thoughts of a woman long past.
Her name is like hands that trace the globe of my mind from the my brain—a small city, public university, museums, a relic of a war dividing country—
to her heart—a large city, the rainiest in the country, or so they say where we mutually met in the middle; it was love, or at fifteen springs, I thought.
This map to her now only summons ghosts and thoughts of a woman long past.
I follow them through the thruways of memories of all she touched with her human condition and hope that the map leads me back to her.
It leads me to our phone calls, where I’d sit on the deck in just pants and drink and she’d stand outside on her balcony and we’d burn the mental incense of a dream forever never coming to pass.
I suppose it’s best to speak of her now; her name only summons ghosts and thoughts of a woman long past.
The ghosts of long-lost proclamations of love haunt my mind. It’s easier for me to believe that she never did mean it, but at three in the morning, I’m fond of sitting on the deck and drinking
And I burn the mental incense of a dream never coming to pass. And I confess none of this as she is a ghost with only a map but my fair Rachael, she haunts me.
It’s no longer safe to speak her name; it’s summoned ghosts and thoughts of a woman long past.