something about ghosts

To people I know of in my reality, physical bodies, I am exhausting my patience of being still and waiting. Am I to embody this shrine in our field? Between the two, myself and the one that wanted me the most, is my existence merely a stone for the lover to worship, yet I cannot pardon myself to animate myself into the life of another? I feel a stranger when I step into the doorway of the house where they live, they who confessed to wanting something more. Just a night ago we were normal, kissing and holding hands, sharing each others embraces, using each other as rests for our body and soul. Now the next day grows dark again, you have a breath of time to enjoy without the burden of life and I have yet to hear from you. I am the shrine which you evoke your own pleasure and happiness, yet I am unable to come to you. I can only wait and grip onto the chance that you’ll visit my pitiful garden again, kiss the steps to my crumbling dome. Share your words against the walls of this sluggish mind and embed yourself into the rock. I haven’t witnessed such a devoted apostle to this old body, in so many years.

Should I be afraid to ask you to walk over, to invite you once more? I do so want to see you again, is it greedy of me to want another some hours by your side? No energy need be wasted, just prove again that you loved me as much as when you wanted me all those nights ago. Such a strange relationship between me, the homeowner, and you as the starving creature that flashes its darling eyes from across the way. Your ribs, my love, is that a starvation of nourishment or affection?

I am weary from the silent begging and tears that threaten to spill with this cold stillness between us. And how am I to say this? Yes, that is the answer is in verbal spillage of the rawest form of myself, but I promised not to be greedy over your heart… I fear myself the cannibal.

I broke a glass cup on my kitchen counter three weeks ago. The glass is still there because nobody has walked into my room again, and I appear to only have the strength to clean the shards when my room becomes a public space once more. 

As is my life. I’ll be happy for you, I will pick up each of the shards of myself if it means I’ll see you again. I won’t tell, that at the end of our meeting I will be shattered again, and again. 

Well, I am tired of begging to be in company. Either love me, or don’t. I do not like to be kept waiting. Do you need me, or do you need a warm body?