Ghost pains

I.
After I died, of course, form didn’t matter.

Relief of a kind I
could not articulate
(lacking a mouth).

I had been poured
into genes; the body’s
kismet commenced.

I was not glorious; nor was I inadequate.

My limbs worked.
I had a heart, mysterious;
a brain that could not understand it.

I did not die young
of sickness. I was
not fatally injured.

I lived long enough to grow weary.

 

II.
Shall I tell you what
I miss, what pains
me now, in absence?

The containment of
skin; the arc of
tension between bodies.

The gaps I could
not bridge. What flesh
made desirable,

and impossible.
The very separateness
that vexed me

while alive. Still,
I am happier now.

You believe me, don’t you?

 

 

Tags: creative writing, death, poem, poetry, separation, spirituality, union