The first time I saw you
you were solid like
a kiss is solid.
When I ran my fingers through
your hair, they caught on your
tangles because it was really there,
I know because I held on
because I wanted proof
that I could hold on to something real.

Your eyes were grey like
Seattle's winter sky,
pale and dark and depthless:
a word which,
I later learned,
has two meanings.

Your hands were cold like
an empty house,
like no one had lived there
for some time.
Your hair had no
texture, your eyes had no
color, the same lack,
you said,
you'd always had.

You faded in time like old receipts
left in jacket pockets,
and like old receipts,
I don't know when it really happened.
At the end, there was
no indication
you had ever been any more,
except the faintest imprints
you said I'd imagined.

The last time I saw you,
you were elusive like
a dream is elusive.
You vanished as I tried
to grasp your hair,
hold your hand,
brush your cheek--
fading into my memories,
vanishing before my eyes.
No matter how I tried to hold on,
nothing more than a ghost,
not quite real,
haunting me.


Janie said...

it's always ghosts...

Rob said...

is that a bad thing?

Anonymous said...

I really enjoyed it, as I do all of your writings. You are extremely talented and I envy your ability to express yourself through words.

Keep writing.

Gives me hope. Isn't that pathetic? :)

Rob said...

Thank you for the kind words, my anonymous friend. I'm glad you find hope in my writing. It's mostly about being human, which is the most hopeful thing I can think of.