Your Ghost

Something familiar: You. You are melancholy wind blowing. Leaves fall to the ground with your touch that tickles me like pine needles. You speak my history in your foreign inaudible language. With blue eyes sealed with sap, you see all of me. I strip. Worn. And used. An orchestrated reunion of past lives celebrating, your deep touch bruises my weathered flesh and drains my lonely soul. Floating. You drink me, and I swim in your aged body. Or do I drown? I hate the addiction, I am emptied by the stale tears wrenched from a teased heart. Longing with desire, my pulse is weakened by poisoned comfort. And Hate walks heel to toe on a frayed tightrope next to Love. And so, I don't look down. I am breathless.