You can’t summon a ghost. A ghost has to come unbidden, uncalled for, undesired; if you want it, it can’t haunt you.
I can’t stand to bury you alone, so I let my grief lay me beside you, I ease my body down into the open jaws of your grave. The cool wet of the dirt wall feels good beneath my palm, good like the river was good when we waded through it with our shoes in our hands, good like the earth was good when god was through with it.
How many times do I have to answer to your name before I become you, before I bring you back to life? (I want to call out to you, but your name has never failed to burn my tongue.)
How many times do I have to try to die before I catch a glimpse of your reluctant ghost? (Can suicide be considered friendly fire? I consider this while looking down at my gun.)
The only difference between a grave and a foxhole is whether or not you’re alive when you enter it. I sit in the mud with my weapons and armor and wait for the shriek of the gunfire above me to slow, shoulders braced against the wall, serial number and rank pressed behind the backs of my teeth. Whether the name on my dog tags is mine or yours is anyone’s guess; they read the same to me.
Here: I give you my heart. I lay it on your lapel and watch it beat, watch it sink into your chest.
Here: I give you my body. I lay it next to you, on top of you, surrounding you.
You can’t transfer a soul through touch,
but I put my mouth to your throat anyway.
You can’t love a person back from the dead,
but god, hear my plea:
can’t I hope?
baratheonpilled
janainaart
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
