I search for it, among the fibres, among the sheets, the pillows for her hair. I find strands sometimes, but the ghost wanders indiscriminent, cleen. It catches me, sometimes, walks past, like the others. She isn’t gone, I hope, I think. I’ve learned the path.
I will taste her sparks again, I will hold them gently, and they will dance in my hands, and along my sides again. She won’t play with it, my chest, gently, I hold that somewhere else, and it will never die easily, will never burn away - this heat, this sense, this all.
I have woken dreams of the other, too, mingling there, feeling, gentle, nurturing as I will always hold before and after this.
I sing to them always, all. We touch and mingle, softly, and their smell will remain, burning softly inside, fueled always as all trapped in my sight.
I sing of all they held to me, of all I traced through with gentle fingers, of all I stomped out in fear of darkness, and I have tasted ‘home’ in them all, as she once spoke, and as she once gave. I have tasted what one day we’ll be ready for, but not yet.
When one least expects something, it shall be theirs. When one is comfortable with having solitude, one shall disappear in the current, one shall be swallowed.
We consumed each other, and it is gone: its ghost walks my room, taunts me lightly from the periphery, as all does - and I miss it, turning.
It’s so hard to turn away from the filling of one’s soul, passionate embrace, stoked in bright Fall echos, shouting in the deepest kiss, reverberating. I swallow her, I drink in her ebb, her flowing dreams in lips and seems it breaks walls needed. And we cry, and we die our little deaths for it’s not time yet. And her arm dies around me as it comsumes her form.
And she bites my shoulder soft while we try to sleep, but it’s all too much.
Her ghost will linger longer, louder, and I welcome the company, oh fresh now your flower wilts and I watch it with mute eyes.