I want to be the ghost
That haunts your every move
Each car that passes too quickly
Every song thats meant to soothe
Reminding you of the way I sang it when we drove for ten hours straight like we were gods

I want to be the apparition
In the corner of your eye
The laugh on the other side of the room
Who you want to comfort you each time you cry
Thats always out of grasp just like breath was over spring break when all we could speak was in nods

I want to be the hallucination
Every time you go to sleep
In the same way you haunt every day and night I'm awake
I want you to tiptoe around your memories the way I creep
But really I just want to know you hurt the way I do, even though in the end it was my fault you no longer respond

Can't kiss my mother with this mouth

A mouth stained with the taste

Somberly stained with blood

Thick blood drained from my teeth

The teeth pressed into my tounge

A tounge holding back every word

Lousy words that would explain

Perfectly explain why I hate I hate

I hate how much I love whats gone

Could anyone let my eyes be the poem, as I write about theirs forever getting the drowsy eyes compliment? It's not a compliment, my sleepy eyes, the sunspots on my cheeks, and the little dimples near my eyes that only appear when I smile. Can the poet write about his own imperfections? I once told my beloved one that the scars on his visage are not repulsive. Yet, every time I pass by their path in mine, I slow down, ease off just to feel yours on mine even if my face had no scar in it at all. Then why don't I see mine as anything else but faults? Still, I am the only one that sees those faults ,how my nose gets some pink touches when I laugh , the way my hair falls on my shoulders and how I tilt my head a bit when I talk .Then, can I be the poet of my own blemishes, to say that they are not? They are not