I’m being haunted by a ghost.
He’s never really there,
but sometimes he makes a sound,
and makes me think I’m not alone.
He’s like cigarettes to me;
they both destroy me slowly,
but I can’t stop reaching for them when I’m low.
He doesn’t know how to love;
he can only run away.
But I, when I feel something,
I run towards it with all my heart.
I’m not afraid to love,
and I’m not scared of ghosts.
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You drew me with phantom love, cigarettes, and a faint almost imperceptible trace of unbroken hope. This is the language of my poetry, so while reading this I feel as though I found a friend. Nicely composed.
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Thank you. He’s a ghost, because he has repeatedly “ghosted” me and reappeared again. I need to let go. This is self-destructive.
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Hope is a hard thing to let go of, and self-destruction is unfortunately poetic in its beauty. I wish you well, all the same – he can only reappear if you keep running to him, after all.
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