The Art of Living with Ghosts

Every time I pass that corner by the park, I can still see the ghost of us. Your hands lingering on my waist, neither of us wanting to let go. When everything was all potential and no one’s feelings were hurt yet.

There’s a ghost of me in that bar we went to on our first date. When everything was electric and wine-fuzzy and we were both wondering how to ask each other home. Every time I walk past I try not to see the echo of sparks that didn’t last. I can’t remember if your eyes were green or blue, but I remember the way you made me feel.

There are ghosts under my skin. When I press my fingers to my lips like you did before you kissed me for the first time. Phantoms that trace the outlines of my tattoos. The clear skin that you left kisses and bruises across is now healed and it’s like you were never there.

The ghosts of memories and experiences that aren’t mine. I can’t tell them to anyone because they never belonged to me, just like you never belonged to me. Instead I carry them, unwilling to let them go because they’re all that remains of you. The only parts of you that I have left.

There are older ghosts too. Half seen and half remembered, but still there. Like an old wound that no longer hurts, I can sometimes feel the pressure of where you used to be. Jokes that no one else understands. TV shows left unfinished, because it turns out that I never liked them, I just liked how it felt to lay my head in your lap as we watched.

I wonder sometimes if I’m a ghost for you too. Do you carry me, tucked away, or am I simply a stray memory to occasionally pluck from the air? I still see you in that particular shade of purple, but do you see me in my favourite shade of yellow?

There are ghosts that I ignore and ghosts that I watch from a distance and ghosts that I drown in. Do I miss you, or do I miss the ghost of me? Lighter, less burdened and without so many ghosts to carry.

I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I can’t let you go.