Friday, January 7, 2011

B is for Ghost Chair

A ghost chair haunts my hours
And devours my memory.

I hoped that She and I would become WE.
Wrapped in each other’s skin.
Like Sunday
Sunday, when the air grew still around us
As she
Breathed life
Into my being
And I became deeply religious
Every fibre thanked the Father that She and I were here
Crouched hungrily on a green chair
The very same that haunts my hours
One
Two years later

The familiar I follow
But it will not lead me back to her

December 25, 2010
A Ghost Chair
Three Text Maximum
© tracy j h

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