I was a child, then.
When a stormy sea
filled the air with hope,
and salt.
And there were hills to climb,
to sit with you
at the very top,
in silent darkness.
Where we held our breath
and lied to ourselves,
about what was wrong
or right.

The years passed us by.
On that hill beside the ocean,
where we consummated
our long-awaited desires,
and I felt sparkles
on your lips;
The same hill under which
I found my reflection
in a muddy pool of water.
The grass beside it was so fine,
and so green.

A park bench at the top
of a sunset hike through
the native valley,
in full bloom—wildflowers
reflected our openness.
Sandpapery stubble
on your cheeks
matched the texture
between my thighs,
which I kept only for you
and nobody else.

The day I knew you would
never be back,
the empty voicemail box,
the repetition in rising
each morning, without you.

the tranquility of ghosting.

how i crave the slick white sheet hovering inches above the ground, barely swirling as the limbo atmosphere stands lentic, no corporeal body underneath.

how i desire the limited peripheral, two cutout eyes that only let me stare towards the floorboards and kitchen and cutlery i cannot pick up.

how i yearn for the final destination within my house, the ectoplasm that follows me around as a new family crams their stuff into the cabinets, desperate to make my grave smell like home.

how i wish i could float beside them, staring quietly at the little tikes frolicking around the living room couch, eons away from my own state, unaware of my inevitability.

how i long to be unable to pick up the knife, or cup, or shaving razor, or blanket, unable to smother, or stab, or slice, or bash.

from the tranquility of ghosting, the inability to harm is what i want most.

i am haunted by a ghost
who calls my name,
who whispers in the wind
and runs in my shadow.
i know her, i know her well.
she was everything i could’ve been,
and everything i lost