It is

Years. Years in delusion,

that this story isn’t written.

Years. Years of blind belief

that I need just wait,

to just, hold on, for a


better than any fantasy

anyone could write.

Funny, that holding on

could be an option.

There is no letting go

of something so

woven to my skin.

Years. Years to be decades then.

It does not matter.

It is.


Living Ghost

Another night.

You were with me;

the in-between of

a dream and a nightmare.


You felt so close to touch;

still further away than

I know how to stomach.

Oh, living ghost,

what will become,

of the depths

that you hold in me.