you inhabit me. every breath taken is drawn to the shape of your lips.
you florally scent the air, and the irony is not lost on an anosmic.
would you believe me if i said, you seep into every waking moment
and you cross the boundary even in my sleep?
i whisper your name the moment i wake,
and it’s you who i see etched on the back of my eyelids -
there is no respite from this,
you don’t inhabit me,
this is a haunting, but i do not mind.
the thought of you keeps me company like a ghost.
i want to keep myself small as possible -
i want to live so soft, as to not leave footsteps in the minds of others.
my name would stir nothing,
you would pause for a minute before you recognize my name,
and the memories will all be tinted rose-gold,
there will be nothing discernible you can point to.
my words carry the weight, not me.
i weigh nothing in your heart - i am a ghost, with no home.
i inhabit nothing but these words.
did the pain ferment into art?
i know you’re still clutching at the entry wound,
blood oozing out, but there is no exit wound.
the pain, unfortunately, is not something new to you -
you wrote your doctorate on the art of healing.
it’s second nature to you;
the pain an undercurrent,
you can almost palpate it through skin,
and you’ve grown indifferent to it.
and here you are,
still a participant in life as though nothing has happened.
you still make life worth living, how did you do it?
this body was likened into the shape of a mausoleum at birth -
i never felt at home here.
don’t get me wrong - there is warmth here,
at best it’s as gentle as the november sun
streaming sunlight into a cold room,
and at worst, the heat of the longing
is a wildfire burning through your tendons.
it’s always been this empty -
soft whimpers grow hungrily into screams,
so i move as softly as possible.
the void is palpable,
you gingerly check each room for a crime scene,
and correctly deduce the exact location where there was violence.
the absence is palatable though -
you thoughtfully chew on it,
remarking on the sweet aftertaste.