Ghost

You are the remains of beauty, you've mimicked so skillfully, the literature I once sought and clothed myself with, now I undress books only to find another part of you, a part you lost behind, words pull me to weep for you, and I resist to hand you more of my feelings, I leave my books open with their bare bones for the winter night to crowd them, and in that moment a shadow-memory strikes me; all these unfinished metaphors terrify me, they sound like my heart when it's slopping a hangover, when it keeps coming back again, when it stops here again, to fall apart again, hoping to bleed an ending to a story that no longer carries your name.