It’s like with every step you lose the possible footprint you’re meant to leave. Sometimes it even feels you’re walking without feet, covering no distance, arriving nowhere.
It’s soothing sitting around watching the world hurry home, music in your ears, lights on your face. It helps to once in a while stop and let the busyness of the city take its course without you thinking of the rush to be somewhere you have to be. You contemplate and realize: you’re a ghost stuck in limbo on the sidelines of somewhere, waiting for your turn to find deliverance in the comfort of a soft seat and eventually, home.
Eventually you just have to rip it off. In the process you wish the wound would come off and stick to it so it becomes disposable, but it won’t. You put soap on the gash to remind you of life and convince you that you are human. You’re a dreamer. But the clouds in your head scare you. The rain, you say, is too much and the basin of your brain can’t hold the thoughts waiting to break free as flood to wash you away, wilted. Even water hurts flesh that’s sensitive to harshness. The band can conceal the sight, but when it suffocates the severity, you’ll realize how it is devoid of aid. You look forward to a scar, the palpable possibility of closure. You will trace it with a finger that trembles at the mention of memories. Anticipation has never been this mending.
I wonder what’s it like to softly twirl a ghost cigarette tween my fingers and rest it dangling on my lip, moist as your name, imagine you, an inch fairy with frail wings, skipping from one smoke circle to another until you become one with the soft vertical cloud halos, now disappearing from light, ascending to air, a thoughtful figment on this wry, thoughtless day.