ghost of mine

It is funny the way the ghost of you follows me in everything I do.

I wander the aisles of grocery stores and pick out plastic packages of frozen mangos and I think about whether you would find it funny the way I explore the entirety of the store only to return to the things I know.

I sit and watch movies and pick them out from digital lineups and organize the pillows on my bed just right and I picture the way you would look if you sat there next to me, and the things you would say at the scenes I know you’d like, and the way it would feel to kiss you in the dark of the night.

I walk the streets in the morning and in the afternoons and I imagine the way my face would turn to yours and how the sound of our laughter would overflow the city, and how you would love the flowers and the rainbow colored crosswalks just as much as I.

You fit perfectly in every moment I know to exist, like a puzzle piece of my life I had never encountered but always knew was missing, like we were made to stand side by side and there was no version of reality in which I was not yours and you were not mine.

It is as if since I was twelve years old, I’ve been begging the world if only I could meet you.


memories like secret weapons for the pain

I remember the way you let me sit in the front seat of a car headed nowhere, my

music beating like a lullaby on the radio, the

ocean passing by the window like a secret only we knew, like

artwork made for me and you, and

the way we kept going while the roads wound behind until

the sun began to fall back into the arms of the night and

it was time to go back to the things we’d left behind.