Many people are haunted by their memories.
I think I'm haunting mine.
Broken and dark, I follow my black heart
to the scenes of so many
happy times.
I go to these empty places
and marvel at how time
can change such scenes.
I went to the place of sweet
kisses by a warm fire,
where you pulled me close
and cradled me in your arms.
Where we slept together
in an old worn-out tent.
I sat on the dirt ground,
felt the grass with my fingertips,
and thought of what we used to be.
I cradled myself and tried not to cry.
In these memories I hold
there is now a ghost of a girl,
standing in the distance
with tears in her eyes.
-M. Spear
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 4:55 PM UTC
Many people are haunted by their memories.
I think I'm haunting mine.
Broken and dark, I follow my black heart
to the scenes of so many
happy times.
I go to these empty places
and marvel at how time
can change such scenes.
I went to the place of sweet
kisses by a warm fire,
where you pulled me close
and cradled me in your arms.
Where we slept together
in an old worn-out tent.
I sat on the dirt ground,
felt the grass with my fingertips,
and thought of what we used to be.
I cradled myself and tried not to cry.
In these memories I hold
there is now a ghost of a girl,
standing in the distance
with tears in her eyes.
-M. Spear
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