My Ghost

You.

I cannot say your name. I dare not allow my lips to be reminded by the sweet and nostalgic taste of its sound. I cannot have my ears be tuned into a word that will soon begin to sound foreign, because you’re gone, and you left no trace for me to find you. All I have is your name. And if I say it…if I let it out, then I might lose it.

And now I wonder… isn’t it ironic? How your name is the most personal and permanent detail about you, but it is seldom ever used by you. It has always belonged to the people around you. And sometimes, I hear your name in their conversations and I am befuddled by how easy and simple they make the task of saying your name sound. For if I were to dare say your name, it would surely carry a detectable tone of rhythmical melancholy, hymning about things that no longer exist, and they will know how I tragically keep waiting for a ghost.

And so when I hear your name, I look away, for if my mouth was not going to speak, my eyes will, and they will tell an untold story about the times when your name was sung in my morning laughter, and will admit to the tender moments when it was a gentle whisper in the cool night. My eyes will confess to the heated instances when your name spurted like nectarous venom then eased into sighs of harmony, then into calls of a symphony. And they will know… how I dolefully keep swaying to a silent song.

I had scriptures, poetry and novels, and I breathed your name. But now… you have taken my breath away and I am only left with three letters.
You…

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