“I’m tired of dragging your ghost.”
I’m talking to nothing, holding on to the steering wheel for dear life. I know you’re there. I can feel your cool gaze like a hot hand between my legs.
There is no answer- you never answer. You only follow me on highways, through empty houses and into nights so long I could be convinced they are eternal.
I am one of those people who wander into brightly lit convenience stores at four in the morning looking for stale coffee and absolution.
Where other spirits run and crowd to speak through my mouth and touch the living with my fingers, you remain silent.
I speak to you in the day, when the other ghosts are quiet and watchful. My pleading cries hang along with the dust motes in the sun and still you will not speak.
You defy my heavenly gift. Destroy my connection with all our honored dead-I would give it all away for one more word.
I have the answers to what belongs to the after and yet all I can do is yearn for a single whisper, a small yes, call my name in the dark basement of an abandoned house.
I will go to my grave gladly to find your touch and your voice.
I won’t, I will drive. Holding the steering wheel with panic fueled strength and ashy knuckles.
But I won’t cry, I won’t cry. I won’t cry.
Some dawn it will all be too much. While the voices of the others, the eager ones fade in the background following the night your silence will drive me into oblivion.
Maybe pills, maybe the blade or perhaps the car, my hands frozen at the wheel and my eyes wide open at the on rushing wall.
I will talk to nothing and drag your ghost until I can join you and hear you whisper my name one last time.