Ghostes.

 Ah, the streets, my ghostes are awakening, the streetlights, they are rising, the dampness of that broad pavement, and the soft breeze of the invisible rain. 

 The cold summer and the heated up winter, the drained down spring and thar particular soft autumn of my dear memory. 

  And those love filled canvases of apostasy times, those reliquaries in the face of the old library now damped and wet from the incessant rain that poured lightly over the city, the town, that little hamlet of culture. 

 And those enticing little alleyways full of art, and those full of people without future, only focused on living today and having fun. 

 My ghostes dance along my heart beat, my passion burning and my face melted in the might of the scenery, ineffable knowledge and sentiments alongside to form what the bitter and melancholic tangos do to me. 

 They are as a ghoul, a now dead yet revived but still dead friend, an nonsense in culture and in pura anima mea, whose chains are still strong to my swamped and sunken heart still pouring rivers for that what I left on my own, for that that is now so out of reach, I don't have sentiments to most of things but her and by her I mean her, my motherlands fruit, the yearning of the year, for many more to come and to crave again. 

 My ghostes, many of them in one ghost, silent as my sound, ghostess of mine, who lurks in my mind as a note to keep to myself, to cry oceans as a response to my own fault, to keep them from my years, they who left and I mourned forever, and those who stayed and I rejected for lives. And now I have to say goodbye, Vale dea mea, regina singularis, urceum lumen. Only mine, to reminisce. 

 And those dark spaces of negative density, where one could just float, and dream, and be at ease of heart for a moment, in the middle of the convolution between a ragestorm and plucked feathers, those negatively positive days are now far gone into what is a dark corner beneath a carpet, a brown carpet, one that connects the stencils and the tendrils of a love so far gone into obscurity and animalesque primitivity. 

 My ghostes call me Host, hostess they say when I am eager to reveal my gender, that place beneath the carpet is losing sight and is now part of the background, as the image of a postal, you received over from a far relative, meaningless and yet full of meanings, they, think of me? they do apparently. How did they knew my address? they went their way for this, such little item, that is now of me... 

 I miss my ghost, I miss being called the host? No, I don't miss that, that's too far fetched for my liking, I feel my soul fleeting as a troupe of musician who are only known for three songs, to hide the whole repertoire of beautiful jazz and orchestral magnate minds now plastified and aroused around fingers in the great violonchelo. 

 And those who are now gone, always present, always on the mind of that background who wonders how does my mourning affects them, them the dead ones, those who are now forgotten to be talkative, now silent, then done with the presence of my talisman, that talisman of force and might that was once gifted as a gesture of pure hatred in disguise, now purified by the subversion my will made for it to fit my throat, and that talisman, to be there protection the notion of those who don't follow me anymore. 

 And I have to be sorry, and I have every excuse for feeling the impulse of my ghostes to eradicate that part of me who reflects better than a mirror, the reality into others, that one that takes the patience to an infinite level, the one who follows the compass and pass of time second after second in their own mind, and can't stop but to be alienated by the block of ice between borders, the material me, and the immaterial you, you who are now as a ghost.

 Ah, my ghost, I wish I could see me in the mirror once I leave. Just as the Host hangs over the leaves of that garden and she didn't bothered to show.