“Ghosts,” I mutter as my eyes close shut
Your silhouette on the chair in front of me
Opening your laptop with a shy smile,
Eyes downcast but twinkly
Wearing the shirt I made you buy.
“Ghosts,” I breathe as I look away from the sky
Your back in front of me on the bike
Watching me from the side mirror
I used to turn my eyes away
I can do it again.
“Ghosts,” I resolve as I drive around your neighbourhood
Wondering if one of the bikers passing by could be you
Questioning if fate could bring you back
Almost crashing into a car –
Relieved when the brakes work.
“Ghosts,” I scrunch up my nose ignoring the water in my eyes
Afraid to wake up for a park devoid of you
Who to imitate? Who to annoy?
Who to leave the bed to meet?
Still clinging on to old routines.
“Ghosts,” I inhale sharply as I flip the table
Working is impossible
Your laptop lay here on our last day together
The movie made you tear up
My fingers swept your cheeks dry.
“Ghosts,” I shake my head in defeat
Who you are and who I wished you would be
Only the fool is to be blamed
Your lies crumbled along with my trust
I cried for peace and you chose to leave.
“Ghosts,” I keep dreaming with open eyes
You never changed all those years
Those shiny eyes, lopsided smile and a penchant for charm
Branded shoes, branded underwears and my unbranded cheap heart
Guess what you treated with utmost care?
“Ghosts,” I shudder imagining you
Our conversation on the railway station
In your room, in my room, in the park, everywhere
Your ghosts gross me out, you who I don’t know what to call
Since I befriended a ghost and he was not you.
P.S. – I wanted to write a piece on boundaries, consent and the problem of giving someone too many chances. I wanted to write on the complexities of navigating unconventional friendships. But at this time, my brain has deserted me. Only my heart beats. So, it did what it knew to do and forced my hand into writing poetry once more. It is amusing that my first poem after so long ended up being about a friend instead of a lover. Maybe it is because my ideas of love have been unstable lately. Nevertheless, losing a friend and being unable to convey the grief due to its unconventionality was lonely. I think I have always written poems to be a bit less lonely. Even if no one understands, I shall witness my grief. I shall hold myself and have faith. It is the only true way to live. I’m always grateful for the friends I have. Real ones, obviously, not ghosts of my expectations and imaginations. I love you all.
Aru Shan 