Friday, March 25, 2016



You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I've known a ghost.

Known might not be the right word. We were acquaintances. The kinds that smile at each other every evening at the bus stop.
It was closer than that, to be true. He came over. Slept on the couch. Made green tea. Did the dishes. Broke them too. Then stabbed me with the pointed ends and washed my blood off the cermaic. Such a gentleman.

He left the lingering smell of smoke after he left. It seeped into the crevices of the sofa. Nestled into the frilly ends of the pillow I used to stuff into my mouth.
He'd cuddle. Softly. You know how ghosts are. You could pass your arm through his hollowness and feel the jittery shiver run up your spine. There was no love making. Just the occasional ghostly fuck.

He left. Or probably just died all over again.
Can one miss a ghost? Can the body crave possession?

I still feel him sometimes, though. Or maybe it's a different ghost. You know how ghosts are. Flimsy.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I used to know a ghost. - Akshay

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