It didn’t matter that you stopped
speaking, writing, answering, being
on a page, in the presence, as a whole being
so I could touch you, hear you, listen to you,

look at you, absorb your being-ness into my senses.
It didn’t matter that you cast your eyes
over the horizon, or scheme to make your disappearing act
as a covert operation, sneaked away like a thief in the night

Although it’s not fair to call you names – a thief, a jerk,
or a coward, what else in life is fair anyway? If only
indifference feels like hate, concrete
and solid like a slab of pavement, not like the ghost you have become.

Nothing matters because life’s a bitch and then we die.
That’s what a professor once said to the class, and we all laughed
a little too loudly at the time.
It didn’t matter that I didn’t ‘get the hint’
and kept on saying your name into the pillow.
It ain’t even the Fourth of July but there are fireworks in the sky tonight.
Just who is it that I am writing to tonight, if not for a ghost who
will neither read, write nor speak?

This entry was posted in creative writing, poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Ghosting

  1. kaylar says:

    *you heard me thinking of you, as i read this. thank you for visit. (-:

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