last night I dreamt an old dream,
conjured up the ghost
put the blade to the jagged white seam
the wound parted: thick red curtains drawn slowly aside.
I saw the blood and started to panic
but the gush never came,
so I was a little surprised
when I heard the voice.
still, I knew it was you
before I’d even turned around.
young smiles and old habits,
it was always like that –
awkward words, a half-assed hug
and I see you’re not alone.
“this is so and so, he’s an artist”, you said.
awkward words, a half-assed handshake,
so and so mentioned your illness.
said he’d give a liver to fix it.
I said I wished I could help
and I meant it.
but I needed mine.
I wasn’t worried.
he seemed like a nice ghost,
he’d figure something out.
your lovely face and his lovely drawings
look better together.
I think I even saw a little ghost-child
in the cards you left on the table.
when they drifted off together they took their chains with them,
and I was glad.
it’s hard to sleep
with all that damned racket.
© Copyright 2012 Kai Adamson (UN: kaiadamson at Writing.Com).
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