i dream of you at night,
a ghost of your fingertips
tracing my back hesitantly,
as i imagine your warmth
enveloping me, flowing deep
into me as i melt into your embrace.
i feel your face bury into the crook
of my neck; red hot lust emanating
through your quickened breath,
one i can conjure, one that i know.
i dream of you pressing deep into
me, reaching, grasping at the confines
of my heart, digits lovingly knocking at the
doors of my soul as you engulf me in your
love, filling me up as i blossom in your arms,
the gaping, wide hole in me filled in a flash;
months have come
and
gone
and
still, her eyes haunt my dreams
her words' breath still lingers against my ears
the ghost of her lips grazing my skin
its been months
and months
and still, my heart breaks at the memory of her
My bloodstream is full of cement,
My bones are the consistency of the 0 calorie jello I prayed would make me skinny.
My tongue is tainted with the taste of you, and oh god, you think it's funny.
You're the smell of stomach acid on my finger tips,
You look like skin wrapped ribcages and yellow teeth.
You're ghost lingers after dinner, and lulls me to sleep.
You came barging in, even when I told you not to
I locked all the doors but you were already inside
Now you keep wandering about trapped in my heart
Trying to find your way out
I want to give you way but, it seems that I've forgotten where I'd kept the keys
I want to let you out
Not for you sake but mine
But I'll let you wander some more
And let you go when it's destined...
His ship is on the ocean
But the sailor lad’s ashore,
And deeply, deeply sleeping,
He’ll waken nevermore.
We buried him atop the hill
That overlooks the bay,
And one there was who walked from there
With slower steps away.
And one there is on watch at night
Who wears the strangest smile,
Because he sees a specter lad
And talks with him awhile.
Across the world he comes to me,
And far horizons dim,
And I await the day when I,
Instead, shall go to him.
She brought the wrong clothes to Paris,
which wasn't as warm as imagination.
She borrowed a sweater and a coat
from me; also shoes, and the heavy socks
that made them fit. My sweater, especially,
seemed to enjoy having her wear it
at cafés, brasseries, and markets. I
explained all this to Balzac’s ghost
at his residence on Rue Raynouard.
Even though I wasn’t speaking French,
he understood immediately. I went on
to observe that almost everyone almost
everywhere works hard and life slips
past so quickly and then all of a sudden
you’re a ghost listening to a tourist.
Yes, yes, said Balzac’s ghost, but
"Ghost of my soul," I shout,
"That cries only to curse me?"
Tip, tip, tip . . . thus the rain falls.
The silence-leaves fallen from Life,
Older than dream or pain, —
Are they my passing ghost?
I've lived so long companionless
In this old house bowed down with years,
I've learned to welcome loneliness,
Converse with dreams and sit with fears.
Often and often in the night
When I have laid some dull book down,
One comes between me and the light
With terrible, unrustling gown.
Wistful as moonlight in the room
Her face sways, luminous with fire
Of eyes unsmothered by the tomb.
Of lips remembering still desire.
And there beside the lute she stands
With mournful little motionings,
And stretches out her pulseless hands
And only thrusts them through the strings.
Dear to me is Ruth, a bowl of crystal
She brims her heart with laughter and I look
And see her clear as the dew on a cobweb,
Or green water over white sand in a brook.
Mary is dearer, color and story
Are wound in her and like soft cloths unfold,
And when she moves her footsteps are of silver,
And where she will her touch can turn to gold.
Oh sweet as wine is laughter with the loving,
And speech with the living good as bread,
But only with a ghost can I feast in silence,
With Eunice, who is dearest, being dead.
The princess that I could not be,
The fairy that was not for me,
The game begun and never ended,
The castle dreamed, the play pretended.
There were three cherry trees once,
Grew in a garden all shady;
And there for delight of so gladsome a sight,
Walked a most beautiful lady,
Dreamed a most beautiful lady.
Birds in those branches did sing,
Blackbird and throstle and linnet,
But she walking there was by far the most fair--
Lovelier than all else within it,
Blackbird and throstle and linnet.
But blossoms to berries do come,
All hanging on stalks light and slender,
And one long summer's day charmed that lady away,
With vows sweet and merry and tender;
A lover with voice low and tender.
Moss and lichen the green branches deck;
At sunset, when the high sea span
About the rocks a web of foam,
I saw the ghost of a Cornishman
Come home.
I saw the ghost of a Cornishman
Run from the weariness of war,
I heard him laughing as he ran
Across his unforgotten shore.
The great cliff, gilded by the west,
Received him as an honoured guest.
The green sea, shining in the bay,
Did drown his dreadful yesterday.
Come home, come home, you million ghosts,
The honest years shall make amends,
The sun and moon shall be your hosts,
The everlasting hills your friends.