Corners of my soul

Something different again, something different here.

Spinning round.

Lining up the what ifs, really fast for reevaluation. Stepping back for a moment, red polish love and consider them. Wine glasses filled with red, all in line. Toy soldiers of possibilities. Perfection, girl. Hitting that perfection head on.

If I could, then I would. My maybes. His maybes. Your maybes. Lined up in rows, ready for the maybe war.

Ghosts.

How many promises were made, only to be cast to smoke, fogging up my way home? Gathering up the fog and the haze, my own personal collection of mist molecules that cling to my hair.

Smoke and mirrors, chess and checkers. Wondering your color, and you always chose black. What do I do when she still asks after you? What do I do when you say it should all be water under the bridge, when I set fire to that route centuries ago?

I see it in your eyes, the love. The love that I question so hard. You have to remember I have ghosts on trial, here. And you have your ghosts too, yes?

I wonder when she will be satisfied, wash the haze from her hair, take a clean breath in, to learn to let it fall, to learn to let it go, to take. Oh, to take.

I wonder what it would be to have left my car behind, to walk along the road that morning, alone, cold, and to tastes those ghosts instead of driving through them, running from them. Even if walking in the dark, taking that moment to absorb what had just happened to me. If I could only ever just take that absorption.

Could you too? Can you feel that let down each time over and over, once and yet again? You're my very own anticlimactic - you promised me heaven. Heaven and white tea black. The look you never gave again, every word that you never took. Like cake for breakfast and blood on the lawn. And you go. Small scene massacre as you shadow through. Were you ever okay with that?

What you were able to embody, for me, were you ever okay with that?