A Work In Progress.

In the shadows of your empty room
I see your feet and watch you move through sun
We danced with dust and cracks
The beat of traffic, coming back
And you, a jukebox singing songs
A radio with nothing on
But all-consuming melody
Your voice, your body calls to me.

Where do you go in this city?

The television set is singing static loneliness
We tore the curtains down, and now the light shines on the mess
Lipstick stains on coffee cups I'll never put away
Your furniture and dirty clothes all have too much to say.

Where do you go in this city?

I used to get off the bus and walk, and watch the ghosts of you and I walking towards me, holding hands, talking. Your ghost looks as though he is in a world beyond my ghost.
My ghost is wearing stripes, but I am wearing floral.
It's a different time.
It's been almost a year since what you were became a ghost and who you are became seperate.
I don't wear that striped dress anymore, but she does.
Although I was myself and my ghost, you were no longer there in the flesh.
I used to go to bed with my ghost, and then she would turn on me. She didn't want to sleep.
She didn't want to get up either. She had realized as well as me that you are different now, different than your ghost was.
But if she realized it, maybe you were always the same.
I am not what you want.
And maybe she was not what he wanted, it was just that they didn't know it yet.
In the end, it's all me. Nobody else.
And spring has come.
Sun has come.
I have survived it, on my own. Without you.
With the snow, so disappeared ghosts, and so disappeared my need for you.
I do not need you anymore.