I write a thousand words then erase them all.
Word count: one.
It’s always my starting point.
Sometimes, for the love of a sweet poem.
Other times, to tear you apart in secret.
How is the present treating you?
Is it still paying rent to your past?
It must be hard putting up with an unwanted visitor.
I never meant to be a ghost.
It was a struggle. Swimming up to your relevant ‘now’.
You drowned me somewhere between the ‘will be’ and the ‘has been’.
Now I haunt you. Against my own will.
I don’t trust the water anymore.
I’d rather learn how to fly.
It’s the only way I can escape. You’re too heavy with regret to follow.
No one ever died of a riddle.