Dear Ghost,
He loves New York. Its a double-edged movie he’s never happy or unhappy watching, over and over. He pours insignificance into his sarcastic coffee mug and laughs as it warms his morning body right into his preferred negligible place… Until austere breeds the ugliest yearning, the most hideous cry for movement. For recognition. He won’t hear it. He drinks. He looks to New York to see him, he finds someone bright to stare at and feels big. He does not recognize himself for the beautiful truth of who he is when life’s fat blisters and boils, burns down to a mirror on the wall.
If you will not say "that is God and I know it" like all the world’s religious you condemn, why do you name a false nature of yourself? Kneeling at the alter of shame, fake blood decorating your hands like a kindergartener with finger paint, a self-proclaimed criminal.
It is the blood in your veins I kissed and saw, tracing it up your arm like a dove flies above a river. You, a railing sliding in my hand as I descended into changing, morphing, until there was no rail to grasp, just the wood-paneled hall of a basement.
Here, yet again I am alone in the depths of darkness, staring at a wall.