Two ghosts

My house is full of Paris and Los Angeles. An Eiffel Tower on my dresser and an LA poster hanging on my bed. You have taken space in my room. And I shouldn’t feel you anymore.

But I still do. That is the ironic part. I’m still crying over us when I’m not supposed to. I’m still writing about you. Still waiting for the happy ending but every day it gets harder and harder to pretend it will come true.

The truth is I’m tired of holding on to someone who isn’t there. Someone I can’t physically touch. I’m tired of holding to a ghost who wrecks my life as he pleases. A ghost who always seems to be halfway in and out. Leaves his camera. Turns on lights. Sits right next to me but every time I reach out to touch him he cowers away.

I never wanted this for me. I wouldn’t want this for my daughter or loved one. To hold on to a man who just isn’t there anymore because he might be the love of her life.

Forgive me for saying this but sometimes I think everything would be better if you were dead. Laying in a grave. I could leave flowers and say there you are six feet under. Because then I would understand why you haunt me.

I would perhaps humor your ghost. Talk to him at the dinner table. But haunting me while you remain alive is torturous and cruel. And I know I’m not innocent in this I know my ghost is also keeping you company. She is there red lips and blue dress holding a book in her hands.

Because to be haunted is to also haunt. But I want us to stop. I want us to cut the cord. Watch it snap. Take a knife and tear right through it. Whatever is keeping us tied together. Sever the soul tie. I want us to stop loving ghosts.