As the hands on the face touched, he became a ghost.
One moment a being of flesh, blood and heart,
the next merely an empty spirit.
Forlorn, drifting around rooms he could no longer say felt warm.
He had no words, no voice, nothing to hear it seemed.
Speaking, knowing what was said couldn’t be understood.
But also listening intently, wondering what had changed,
caring not for his own wellbeing, even if without form he had nothing left to lose.
As the hands on the face moved round, the time began to mean less.
No longer could he physically interact with people around him.
And the one person he dreamed he could touch shied away,
ignoring his past masculinity and prowess, only seeing what they wanted to see.
His hands smoothed over soft skin, but the sensations were not felt,
and reciprocation was therefore impossible.
He kissed a hot forehead, listening to sleeping breaths,
mouthing words of love he knew could never be accepted again.
As the hands on the face were lit up in the morning sun, the new day heralded the end.
No chorus of birds to flank the rustling of the trees.
In a house where once there were no secrets, now doors were closed.
Hiding conversations, muffling laughter, sounds he heard from the past,
a tone of voice long forgotten, but now came flooding back.
But that voice was not directed at him, and the laughter was not a creation of his wit and charm.
With great effort he managed to move objects, clear away the debris of 3 childhoods.
Taking great care to do this task properly, but knowing there would be no reward.
How can a ghost be given anything in return?
As the hands on the face cooled down in the dusk he waited, wondering when the one person would come home.
Gone for so long, performing an errand which should have taken minutes,
clearly the ghost was being forgotten.
HIs presence diminishing as the time went on.
The rain began to fall, but he didn’t feel it. Passing through him as if he wasn’t there,
highlighting his emotional death.
His hands turned the pages of the newspaper, taking in the articles, but his mind was elsewhere.
It was wondering where it had all gone wrong, where the moment was that he started this
journey from being real, to being nothing. And where it would end.
As the hands on the face touched he saw the door closing, knowing what that meant.
More laughter, happiness and a brighter outlook.
With his last strength he said goodnight, but the one person couldn’t hear,
embroiled in that which was more important, more pressing, more ‘now’.
So he floated upstairs, revelling in the darkness, trying to cry.
Yet it seems a ghost has no tears, just a cloying twist to his insides.
Emotional pain beyond description from which he couldn’t escape,
even if he thought that getting as far away from that one person could alleviate the symptoms.
But of course, it was never about proximity, even a thousand thousand miles couldn’t take it away.
As the hands on the face told the tale of another dreary morning, he awoke to find himself truly alone.
With nothing left he gathered his remaining strength, his meagre possessions, and his faltering pride,
declaring his intent to leave as soon as he could, perhaps never to return.
His ghostly footsteps left no marks, his presence no happiness.
As the door closed behind him he felt himself dissipating,
the wind, which passed through him the day before, now tugged on his soul.
Looking up into the clouds he was drawn into their chaotic movement.
Looking down he saw the earth moving away, just his effect on those who remember, remaining.
As his heart was finally torn apart, his soul was set free.
Bound no longer, but now without purpose.
It will aimlessly drift until finding his heart again.
Steve B 11/07