père

There is a ghost that follows me around. Down the staircase, as my fingers run along the walls. He is the dread I feel at night as I lie apoplectic on the parquet floor. He is the lump in my throat when I shake the sleep from my eyes in the morning. He is the language in my brain that I keep hidden in a cipher. He is the space in between sentences, the gaps that linger between the ink, the paper that I write on. He is in the air that I breathe and I feel him on my skin. He is the long afternoon just before the azure evening horizon. He litters the blackest of night skies with stars like punctuation marks. He is the ink on my flesh. He is in my mind. and heart. and body. and soul.

He is a ghost story. He is a love story.