a poem called and

i've been told that you are haunting,
like the ghosts in every plagued film you seem to creep through cracks
in the floorboards and in the walls.
and your shadow permanently resides on the sidewalk,
and through the lawn you chase.
and i cannot lose your chilling touch.

and and and and and and and and and
and i lose.

i know that i am not yet a man,
but i do know that i've done most everything i can do.
the river is warm on my frozen toes,
and i know that i am not coming home yet.
and
and

and if you knew anything about the last forty-eight hours,
then you would know that my demons gripped me by my palms and would not let go.
they all got together making mockery of the pains of life.
and they told me it was ok.
and they shook the walls with their voices in unison.
and they took the drug.

i wouldn't mind you disappearing,
because i know you can always be found.
i'm not even entirely sure i know you yet.
and truthfully i don't even mind.
and honestly i don't mind the haunting.
and i might just call you casper for now.

casper, you roll like wave.
and you hit me like a katrina.
and you soothe like a grace.
and maybe everything is ok.

and i'm ok with that.