The semi-salmon hued curtains have begun to pale;
The carpet's trodden down from door to closet;
The books keeping me company are crippling, their spines
Derided.

Shimmers of sunlight bounce off water-stains on the window,
Reminding me of your blonde flash of a head of hair.

And where are you now?
And what myriad hearts have beat beneath you?
And how many lives have been interrupted by that dulcet fury?

The wind outside shakes the shutters, knowing how deep you run through—
And how you're tattooed to—
My very pulse.

Everyone I’ve ever talked to has said they’ve held hands with ghosts at one point in time. That’s why it’s so easy for me to tell you, I don’t sleep at night because I’m haunted. Neighborhood kids don’t even come around me no more and if you walk to my door you’ll be so thankful that it’s closed because if the outside looks like hell, you might want a ghosts hand to hold if you want to look in.

When this place first started to feel haunted I didn’t believe it till I walked outside and said to myself, “wow it looks like it too”. Every board holding me up feels like a memory and that broken window looks like a miracle. Something isn’t leaving this ghost heart and it’s the reason I’m barely alive with a barely connected ribcage.

She broke that window. She’s gone now but still around. It’s like she vanished into the ceiling only holding on to white balloons, telling her they were clouds, tricking her and taking her; a chunk out of my heart. I can hear her breathe when I turn my back, it doesn’t scare me I kinda like it. When it’s too quiet I hear her say “boo”. She drops glasses and picture frames reminding me of where I am. Rattle your chains and scream. I believe in you and I believe that this ghost heart is haunted too.

She had this tattoo of closed eyes reminding everyone she’s a dreamer. And when I’m dreaming I’m seeing her. Feelin’ her, the pressure on lips, have you any idea what it’s like? Ghost lips folding over mine? Well, it feels like it wasn’t even there. Though it looked real it’s just something some people still believe in. And I believe in a portrait I hung on my ghost heart because people were forgetting to look for it. As if it never really was there.

I don’t close them but my eyes are starting to play tricks on me. In a wispy white apparitional haze I see you. I abandon the idea of a ghost and just call you pure. But baby the truth is all in this manifestation. You’re the traditional ghost of my hollowed out soul. Necromancy I’ll speak to you. Hear me and if you heart me speak me into the callings of those who are no longer with me. Where are you? You haven’t been lurking within the walls of this house but rather in the veins of a ghost heart. Pumping your face into arteries. Haunting my beats. You follow me like a demon. I’ve never been a man of faith but that word means different things to different people. People need to have faith in the pulses of ghost hearts.  I’m beating although you may not see it. I’m alive and you don’t believe it. I am haunted. By a beautiful ghost who lives in my disgusting ghost heart.

escaped from streetlights' tyranny,
the moon laces apparitional silver
through a blue silk sky,
creating spectral branches
from a real world mirror.

It isn't that you come here
moaning and flailing about my room
in a desperate apparitional brilliance

or that you move between my walls
omnipotent, chain rattling

but so much more

You make noise of fears
poets do not care of

of dying
of living
of beseech
of neglect
of need

but in a wailing assertion

If you want dominion here
break something

his future
his past
his heart -
    
           his thoughts

If not

he will most likely
cast you out to dolts
tucked tight in beds
in other cul-de-sacs

You need to understand
this home owns a sedentary poet
seduced by despondence

as aloof as anyone
you have ever strived to poltergeist

he will not know of you
lacking gifted conversation
and a planchette