Ghost
You were not there.
But something was.
Living,
in a fuge state,
embroiled by a certain surrounding,
sorrow,
living,
as you had lived,
following rules,
built up by expectation.
It lived,
it spoke to me sometimes,
to be seen in that way,
made it less real.
I thought you spoke to me before,
now I know it to not to be,
a thing at all,
but a clawing,
absence,
that has not yet been filled.
I try to leave it be,
but it still calls out to me,
and in the quiet parts of the night,
when all but my heart is alseep,
I want it to be so real,
it hurts my mind.
But you have long since gone,
left alive only in what I have left for a mind,
though,
maybe I am a ghost to you now,
intruder of thoughts,
turning my wheel with your tears,
as the dream becomes reality,
as if the butterfly,
could dream such abstraction,
left to rot in the empty cavity,
made of that space,
between hope,
and despair.