She is crushed like the leaves, of a tree in a storybook’s yellowed pages. A stream full of silt from yesterday’s beating. She was my holy ghost before I knew I didn’t believe. And her ankles were chains sweeping into my veins, singing softly.
She is tangled in my hair, of the dreams I wouldn’t dare. No I could never dream of anything. There was nothing else left to dream of, and of her I wouldn’t dare dream.
Like the moss covered stone, I am always left hanging. A dead thing giving life, searching for my others that surely must be inside of her.
A coward, yes. Afraid of life. A self-proclaimed heretic, mewling in the shadows of my heart, never loud enough to burst the strings, but how they ache as the singing builds inside. Oh how I wish I could die. Save myself from my heart, save myself from my shame that I have convinced myself is shame, my love…
But she was just a ghost. Just an echo of my lonely soul. Just a whisper in my sleep, as I chased after her dream. Singing in the summertime high school halls, hanging from the pearly teeth on the wall, gold emblazoned victory-plastic, never more out of place, then when she was home.
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