Ghosts

It’s haunting to think that I didn’t know that the last time we kissed would be our last.

I wore a blue and white dress,

and you wore lies,

tucked into the seams of your clothes that I couldn’t feel,

even when I held on to you and wouldn’t let you run down the stairs,

leaving me at the top feeling low.

For some reason,

I am fond about the first time I met your Dad

because I was filled with trepidation,

and he hugged me as if he was thankful for me.

His soft spot for me bleeds through my thoughts

and reminds me of the joke your friend made when she said I was too pretty for you.

I used to tell you that I would always love you like I was gonna lose you,

and wholeheartedly, I did.

I thought you meant it when you said you loved me the most,

but now I am the one waiting for you,

except for the fact that

I never knew ghosts were real

until the day you left me.

At your birthday party,

I was petrified of putting on a show

and my social anxiety took control,

but you were always the one who held me tight, held me right,

held me until my tears dried just enough so that you could make a joke,

and the ice would break into exactly the same pieces that my heart did

when you said you couldn’t do “this” anymore,

as if “this” was something easy for you to leave behind.

I miss your eyes, your brown ones,

not the ones that gave you away when you wouldn’t say how you felt,

even when you wouldn’t say and I already knew.

I told my therapist that I don’t want my whole life to go by without my soulmate,

and she said, “A true soulmate wouldn’t treat you that way.”

I want to call you to tell you that I’m healthy,

and that guilty desire agitates my friends.

I hate myself for that not being enough to make me want to put the phone down.

It’s been a long road, but here we are.

Happy four year anniversary from hundreds of miles away in physicality and heart.

I wish you were here so I could whisper it to you.

But all I have are four walls that have replaced your arms when I need to break down,

walls that, if they could talk, would spill all of my secrets about how much I still love you,

even though it’s like you’ve died.

I listen to our songs.

I listen to your voicemails.

In a faded picture of the beach

with you and me,

my hand on your chest

and your head resting on mine,

I force myself to imagine you fading away.

Hopefully, you’ll call one day.

I used to tell you that I would always love you like I was gonna lose you,

and I always keep my promises.

I thought you meant it

when you said you loved me the most,

but now I am the one waiting for you,

except for the fact that

I never knew ghosts were real.

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Paranoia