Your Kisses Left Burn Marks On My Neck, Your Hands Left Bruises On My Waist
Seeing you is the closest thing to seeing a ghost. I can't touch you, or see you, or breathe the same air; but you're right there in front of me. All it would take is my hand reaching out to grab yours. We both know that would only result in a quick absence.
I find you in a picture, in a map, in a song, even breathing right in front of me. That is how you find a ghost, right? You find them in memories, or maybe by accident. You open your eyes too fast, or the door you left wide open suddenly closes, or the wind taps on your window in the middle of the night. But I never asked for the wind.
You're transparent, a figure with eyes, and a mouth, and a voice. But none of those things matter if they don't actually belong to you.
The house is cold, the walls dull, the bed sheets empty.
I never knew what it meant to be empty, but full. I never understood what it meant to be euphoric, but angry. I never knew what it meant to be here, but absent. I never knew until you left.