Meeting a ghost

November days felt like death,

my head was void and faded,

going wild through the heavy hours,

while my heart became more dry and desperate.

The room was dark, full of sorrow,

keeping my bed attached to my opaque shadow.

By the tenth, you were there with your dull blue eyes,

kissing my thoughts from an ocean apart.

Venus's spark kept rising high,

killing time as in a piece of art.

We let our souls collide.

Not shallowness, no vain notions,

I could feel the need of our skin, the fear of being held,-

and the dream of being ourselves without remorse and shame.

You feel dead until you meet a ghost with a passionate living

soul... But you can't touch a ghost, you can't hear its voice, his

energy is gone and it's not with you anymore.

Who am I to my ghost?

Why can't I have him right by my side?

Does he ever say my name and smile, or should I hide my blues and

cry?

I was dead until I met my ghost, but...I never lived in his world.