He’s a ghost because he wants to be one.
The door is open but he swings by the entrance.
He’s falling off the pages, walking on the corners.
Blurry letters of a book i just can’t read.
He’s half real by choice.
Here, not here.
His cold hands running up my thigh…
He’s my ghost, my personal fight.
The monster calling from under my bed at night.
He’s surrounded by questions.
Questions that only lead to more questions.
I don’t like any of the answers so i stay quiet.
He’s a ghost.
And i’m playing dead.