poem: ghost

this is the ghost. sitting with my tongue sour and pressed against my

teeth; writing five bad essay sentences and stopping to

stare out the inside window. how the hell do people

have so many friends? this is the ghost. no longer can I

tell if I was in love with the symbol, with the potential, with the

presuppositions, or with the boy. how the hell do I make sense of

my emotions? People passing, thicker. I need some self-respect, but

do you think I can just forget him sitting on

my bed. do you think I can forget and nicely repackage the story to the

people who ask. I guess four years of being nothing in high-school

makes you nothing, makes you desperate. waltz music in thick thick carmel

and bricks against my back. on good moments I can tell the snow on the sun that

he was a Life Lesson and I won’t accept so little next time. what he was is the

question, I guess. the feelings are left-overs, stale, too sweet: this is the ghost, again. he

is tattooed inside of the wallstreet journal; inside of the freemarket and the apparent

poor evolution of javascript; I write this and I cringe and I feel nothing.