are your hands
If only in my mind
Their touch,
if I forget,
if I close my eyes,
if I pretend,
it could be yours.
Almost.
I’d not forgotten you,
and I don’t hate you,
as you seem to think.
In fact,
quite the opposite.
I miss you,
and I love you.
He’s not you.
But I was scared,
so I killed this bond,
before it could grow,
and hurt me.
Now you’re gone,
a murmur of
a rainy Saturday
in June.
You are gone.
You are not here.
You are not mine.
I don’t pretend you are.
I must forget this.
It was my choice.
But the problem is,
I can’t.
I can’t forget the ghost,
that lingers on during the
end of that song
or turn away from
once inviting curbs.
You are my demon,
my haunt that won’t leave me.
But please,
don’t leave me.
You are my favorite
ghost.
~molly c.
