A Green Ghost

My ghost keeps turning lights on in my house but she does it so quietly I can’t tell that she’s out and so I wander through the hallways looking for her silver shape but she is never up; she hates that I’m up so late. And the doorknobs are cold and the locks probably froze and there’s so many things that nobody knows like the distance to there, that far away place, floating as much through time as it is through space. I can point to your flaws because I painted them all turning dark what was once a pristine white wall but you keep forging onward through thistles and weeds, jumping from trees into piles of leaves. You’re half the battle, half drunk when you wake. The last straw to call me up for a date. My ghost demands loneliness all in my bones; she wants to make sure I’ve got nowhere to go. She hides me keys, she parks behind me. When my friends describe it they use her to show me. If we just generalize, we’ll end up alright. No claims need be made, there’s no foes to fight. I woke in the woods with the moon overhead and only some sticks to serve as a bed. Now I’m wandering back with a bottle of gin, half of which, I might add, is already within my delicate veins, flowing into my brain. Baby this time there is no one to blame but ourselves and our ways again and again. You followed my shadow across three long states when I told you I’d be back you just had to wait but you can’t be alone and I can’t be trusted. You’re slurring your speech and your eyes rusted red. But no, this never happens. I’m wringing my wrists. I want to hold out for one more messy kiss and then I will retire to a twice unmade bed but only if you’d feed me some water and bread before I lay myself down and I reach out to you. You always were an actress so can you please just take your cue and you’ll become the things we joked about, the poseurs and the scene. It only took you two days to say that you didn’t mean to make these small mistakes in logic that eventually will show that you’re the kind of place where nobody should go: a barren wasteland, all horizons, days of endless sun and cold. I was still having the nightmares and swearing off the pills. They made me tired, I don’t like it. I know that I’ve got no will for these things or these times. One of my cousins went blind off backyard whiskey on the fourth of July. It was halfway through the fireworks; he never even cried. He said ‘Mike you won’t believe this, but I don’t think I can see.” I looked at him straight in the eye but he looked straight through me. My worry is that one day we will both forget our names, trying hard to let them know we aren’t asking for their change. That’s why you always ride shotgun and I’m your biggest fan. Let’s just this once not need someone or something to help us stand. Maybe let’s not lose count of each empty can or cup; let’s not have your friends tell me that you’re outside throwing up. I’ve got the yellows, not the blues. I can see through you, you’re made up of all the birthday wishes that are never coming true. The candles coated in that icing from the halfway line on down. My ghost likes me better when my hands and feet are bound with all the petty obligations that she never fails to need. My ghost trembles through my fingers, but she never wants to leave.


~ by perfectionatrix on December 3, 2008.

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