she lays on the bed in one of my shirts

it is long and big on her but she looks gorgeous and as her finger runs through the hair on my chest and her eyes lose focus i know something is coming

her finger pauses and i tense up

she feels it and snaps out of her trance and gives me that look that says whatever spills out of that sweet mouth could be toxic for sure

(she’s not here, part of me knows it but i’m halfway in and out of sleep and that’s when she tends to show back up and remind me of what i wish i had)

do you ever write about me she says with a hint of steel in her soft voice

just enough steel to trigger every conceivable alarm in my head

i look away from her big blue eyes

careful to avoid the pale skin coming out from my shirt as well

i stare at the ceiling and take a deep breath

(she’s not here)

you’d think i would have this goddamned ceiling committed to memory by now

her finger digs in a little more

less playful and on the edge of painful which can be playful but there is a time and place for that and i know now is neither

yes

damn you

yes

when

i don’t know

am i her, the her, the one you like and say is a metaphor but everyone knows isn’t really a metaphor

sometimes

sometimes she is you and sometimes she is her or her or her or sometimes she is a metaphor

but sometimes she is you

lately

no

lately she is her

her finger goes back to playful again

what about her

what about who

her, the her that isn’t me or a metaphor

just a silly infatuation, inspiration, brilliant and unaccessible, might as well be a metaphor

(she isn’t here and part of my brain knows it but it feels good to have someone to talk to about it all)

i don’t like her

why, feel threatened by another figment of imaginary bliss

you don’t need imaginary bliss

yeah, because real bliss is pounding on my door, blowing my phone up and leaving me spent between the sheets

bliss is another thing i gave up for lent

you’re not catholic

i could’ve been but i gave up faith for lent as a kid

packed all my imaginary friends into a suitcase and dropped them into the river to drown with my innocence and mental health

still that poor little boy getting hit with the metal coat hanger and hiding his bruises

sure am

(she may not be here but it feels way too close too real for comfort)

what happened to the last her

she went away

and the one before her

i was just a stand in for the one she really wanted

seems like i’m detecting a trend

seems like it

don’t think i haven’t noticed

it’s been a steady line of being a place holder

or never taking a chance

i did with you and where did that get me

fair

can i get out of this sleep paralysis state now

are you going to keep writing

i don’t know

i read other people’s prose and mine feels so empty

so shallow

they paint masterpieces while i scribble scraps

they spin silk from webs

i

i don’t

always your own worst critic

i seem to recall you were pretty harsh on me too

but i’m not really here now, am i

no

just a ghost that haunts me

a phantom itch

set me free

if i knew how

if i could

i would free both of us from this

this half life

free to try and find real happiness

free to leap and fly

or fall and crash

of our own accord

i guess part of me still misses you

the you that was mine

you’re gone aren’t you

(she was never there, but the wispy her is gone as well)

i turn my head and she is gone

i’m alone again

staring at the ceiling

i should have the damned thing memorized by now