I don’t know
if I had expectations
for who you were
or who you are.
But I do know you follow me,
every nuance
that makes you
who you are,
you follow me,
haunt me,
collide with everything I know
and twist into every open space.
I don’t know what I should expect
except nothing
because that’s
what you started giving
long ago.
Your finite messages
that told me
your heart still bleeds my name,
this is what you gave
and tore away
as my fingers splashed crimson
on your already wounded words.
Do I have final lines
that will end this haunting,
this hovering of your ghost?
I have so many
that none seem final.
Can people see you there
in my eyes?
No one asks
so maybe I hide you well,
but I feel you stuck to me
like blackberry brambles
in the middle of summer,
hot and
sharp and
But no one notices
that you follow me,
that your memory
tangles through my daily movements
the way tree roots
rupture aged concrete,
bold and
brash and
with no regard for the present.
No one looks into my eyes and says,
“I can see your agony pooling
on the floor,
making puddles of lost love
for all of us to walk around.”
You are invisible,
a phantom of lost chances
and missed meetings,
and I feel you waiting
behind my eyes
for the big reveal,
for the moment I forget
you are a ghost
and scream your name
for all to hear.

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