1/19/11

The Pieces of a Ghost
By Megan Kelley


I’m stuck in the present, but,

I can see the future

old and perfect

living with me.

she still looks at him

with glowing eyes and rosy cheeks

he still holds her

and tells her he loves her.

my heart just aches

with my disconnect.

he put a ring on layaway

and held his breath

until she graduated.

she said yes

and was grateful

for all the nights he cried,

hundreds of miles away,

missing her,

her smile

her hugs

her kisses.

their path stepped

from the room at the top of the ramp

to an altar at the end of a church aisle.

I float through their memories,

a ghost from their future.

they lived

they spent the night together

they loved.

and on a full moon in december,

two became three,

and I am no longer their ghost.

love plus love

equals my lonely heart.

my two halves are each of them

made one.

but halves become quarters

and I have no filling half.

I eye my potential jigsaw partner

and fall into disease,

into the chronic condition of hope.

I could be fulfilled

he would fill me.

but,

there’s always a ‘but,’

I sold myself away too soon

into digging my mind’s grave.

but even as I sit in this brown hole

dug far too deep

I appreciate every speck of dirt.

I run the dirt through my fingers

between my toes, everywhere,

bathing, indulging,

becoming filthy in my beloved hope.

fill in this grave,

and flowers will grow.

the same dirt that flowers take root in

is the dirt that is the final caress

of the late beloved.

as I bury myself alive,

I can still see how she looks at him,

and him the same,

and how they both look at me.

am I a carbon copy

of their telenovela romance,

as well as their bodies?

history repeats itself

but only if you wait long enough.

does she see a bit of herself

in my desperate longing?

does he see a bit of himself

in my stubborn determination

to survive the year alone?

I was their ghost

until I became one of them.

but just one,

and one is never complete.

do I have a little ghost too?

do I have someone looking back on me

and knowing my ending?

my little ghost is half of me

and half my matching jigsaw.

but just as I become accustomed

and begin to love my silent observer,

she is stirred by that breeze,

transforms to dirt,

hangs in my mind an agonizing moment,

then drops particle by particle

onto the mound of filthy,

life-sustaining

hope.

I have the bits and pieces of my ghost

just as my mother and father

have the pieces of me

as I bury myself.


- - -
I am an 11th grader that thinks I know a lot about love. But I really don't. I work at a small bookstore, I write when I feel like it, and I love ballet.