Ghosts without Graveyards
By Mick Havoc
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My name's Mick. I'm an eighteen year old trapped in the middle of nowhere. I like good books, good cigarettes, and good company.
By Mick Havoc
Ghosts without graveyards have but no choice other than to wander above wet, dark grass, and pretend their heartbeats are solid and tangible. So, we travel until moonlight evaporates against black mold and make footsteps of our dreams.
A pattern. That’s what we create – a mosaic of minds trapped in fog and imprinted in soil and ran over by sunlight.
I sleep on your rooftop and smile through your shingles and wonder about the impossibility of sitting on sharp stars and kissing blue skies. And you dream, like the dreamer you are, hinting at the fragility of your soft bones.
Meander. You meander through my transparency and I watch you slip through my heart’s corridors until it bursts with heat.
A ghost’s most prevalent fear is living forever, but I swear I’d stand in every hell before I’d let you go. And I’d blink through every storm of sand until my white eyes turned brown before I’d let you cry. And I’d sink in every stream of hiccupping waters before I’d let you drown.
But just to hold you. To flash your flesh between my system of sight and coil you into the furthest place in my mind, so while I wander the emptied, grave-less lands I have pleasant dreams and gentle footsteps, would satisfy me. Bring you to my cold whiteness and warmly word why I know how many breaths you take before waking in the morning.
You cannot love what you cannot see, but let me show you communication isn’t what you think. Continuously, you inscribe your thoughts into a voice of gorgeous and gorging splendor, but that is not the only way of contact. Let me show you it is possible to love someone through thick darkness, a blind block between. It is possible to lie on perspiring grass and feel the pulse of a corpse beneath the soil. It is possible to recreate bonds from nothing but wind and to resurrect lost hearts from the small of your back. Perhaps, even, it is possible to sit on sharp stars and kiss blue skies.
Perhaps, even, it is possible to love, without margins, ghosts without graveyards.
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My name's Mick. I'm an eighteen year old trapped in the middle of nowhere. I like good books, good cigarettes, and good company.
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