tmbt: giving up the ghost
You haunt me. It is true. I’ve said it. You’ve heard it. You’ve said the same and I too, listened. We are like wraiths in and out of the rooms that were built so very far away from one another. We are like apparitions hovering like dogs as if the scraps of this love could be caught or even sneaked off of the table when our rational minds and theirs were not looking. We are like the poltergeist, holding to the person in death as we would in life and there is no real life here for you and I. Only that springing hope. And hope is a lonesome-making bedfellow.
New years will come, and perhaps they will go. New lives will come, and they certainly will go. New loves will come, even if the old ones never go. We can dig our heels in, wish and wish against hope that it will be different. But without it being different, it cannot be different. Nonsensical, perhaps. Nonsensical to everyone but you who reads my every move and word with a knowing no other human could.
Go haunt your own house, your own other, your own. I will try not to look for you lest you be drawn back to me as only the ghost. I will try to join the living here, even if only in my own body. The living. I am alive, I am well, I am thriving. I cannot feed this dying or I will become a real ghost, for certain. It is too much to smell you here every moment, to wear you like clothing, to hold you like hands in mine. It is too much and so I will give you up again. I will not say it all again now. I will simply give you up. Again. And again.
I will give up the ghost.