John Tustin

I was about to write a poem

About you

But I got distracted.

In this poem

You were a ghost that came into my life

At the very moments I needed you most.

You were a ghost that haunted me

At the very moments I needed to move

Forward from the spirit world

Into this horrible reality.

You being everything I needed

That was also killing me –

That was the gist of it.

 

No one in your netherworld

Knew of my existence or that

You had this obsession with me

And my well being.

No one in my real world

Believed you were flesh and blood

And now I see you most certainly

Are not that to me

Anymore.

 

The ghost with hair black and flowing

As if contrails

All about the ceiling

As I would lie dizzily in my work-sleepiness.

The ghost with her disembodied voice

So like fingers along my spine,

Playing melodies as if my bones

Were a viola.

 

The ghost who haunts rooms she has never

Inhabited when alive.

The ghost in the music that comes to me

When I am too weary to do anything

But listen.

 

There were whispers of me

That floated like a scent

That were sniffed out through the brimstone

In your netherworld

And the pitchforks rose up

To eradicate me.

You removed all scent of me

From your place among

The world where I do not,

Must not

Exist except as a boogeyman

Who will steal mothers from perfect children

As they sleep with their windows open,

Pretending their opened arms

Accept.

 

Typing this out with my pudgy fingers

As more slender fingers

Somewhere closer to you

Build you structures,

Construct toys to amuse you

As my pudgy fingers, fractured mind

Only bring you angst.

 

You are the ghost.

I am the man.

You have your world

And I have mine.

When I close my eyes

I will see you tonight.

You are welcome in my world

That can never merge with yours.

Someday

I’ll write about it.