My ghost story.

You were beautiful. It felt like a secret I couldn’t bear to keep, so I told you. And you smiled, just a halfway smile, like you didn’t quite believe me. But I meant it, with everything I had. And when I told you this deep secret there was more behind it than just words. The statement was fueled by admiration and lust. As you knelt above me, as you kissed me gently, I had the overpowering urge to touch every inch of your body. Your milky soft skin. The little parts of your chest that were growing stubble, your strong legs that were long and lean, that carried you into my life. I can still taste the saltiness of your skin and I can still smell you. Sometimes at the grocery store a scent will hit my nostrils, and I’ll follow it or look for it like a dog searching for something. And I scan each face hoping to see yours but instead i’m met by strangers staring back at me.

And you’re so close yet so far. And I now I have simple memories, so complex in their simplicity I struggle not to let them haunt me. And sometimes when I lie in bed at night I think of you and I. Together. Laying in your bed in your quiet room and I can still hear your heartbeat, quick and nervous. I made you nervous. Do I still?

Like a ghost you came into my life and then you left. And for years I’ll keep telling myself our little ghost story, perhaps around a campfire late at night when I’m all alone and want to feel something other than loneliness.

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