the living

I told you I was a ghost

long after sunset.

 

I haven’t been inside of body

most summer,

I don’t know skin

without touch,

even then,

the tethered ballooning

of my escape-craving soul,

the frail flesh,

                                the rented residence

— not vacated –

 

I’m just outside it,

in the adjacent yard

watching flowers eat sun. 

 

maybe your beard, your hearth

could convince me winter’s coming.

 

maybe,

with patience and

— sometimes I just want to be a housepet –

                                        your hands holding my

tear-damp face

(summers are always wet here)

I could return inside

                for a season,

stop haunting empty cemeteries,

join the living

for snow.    

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About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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