Haunted by you

I look around me—

brown mountains, dusted with snow and tangled in green.

It’s beautiful, I think.

But as I breathe in the sharp, pure air,

a voice at the edge of my mind whispers,

“Not quite right. The brown should be honeyed, warmer.”

And somehow, the rest of me agrees.

I look again and hear laughter in the distance,

but a voice murmurs,

“Wrong tone—it should be richer, fuller.”

And again, the rest of me agrees.

A hand on my shoulder. I turn to see,

but the voice persists,

“Not the right touch. It should be firmer, rougher.”

And again, I agree.

I am a thousand kilometers from you,

surrounded by landscapes people dream of,

and still, everything here seems shaped by thoughts of you—

your brown eyes, your laugh,

the feel of your skin against mine.

For God’s sake, I’ve come so far, but you remain,

lodged deep in my mind.

I hate it.

I hate you for it.

And I hate myself more.