Your Ghosts

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Sitting on a bench, the soft wind curling around our lanky limbs,

The bright rays of the sun sizzling our skin as we sip a drink that's full to the brim,

Rust's old fingers have now wrapped around the bench's fine finish,

And like a faded Polaroid photo the sun's rays began to diminish,

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The soft, leather couch that used to overflow at the seams with pillows,

The curtains that were coaxed towards the couch with a breeze that would bellow,

Ignorance's searing gaze formed deep tears on the sheen cushion,

The breeze's roar lowered to light murmer now sings in a different direction,

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An earthy aroma dances through the garden and sneaks into our skin,

Feet pounding the pavement and laughter which breaks the air without caution,

The subtle undertones from Mother Nature rot and kill the flowers above,

The loud footsteps are carried away by time who's being is devoid of love,

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The TV's colors that shined on our faces turning us into mini gods,

Highlighting our features: the otherworldly and the tragically flawed,

I sit here drumming my bony fingers along my knee in rhythmic taps,

The days long gone by because you left me for another to give you what I lack,

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