And Again We Talk About Ghosts…

And Again We Talk About Ghosts…
by T.M. Weber
there used to be nights. nights i could write about. with heartbreak and booze and a hurried blow job or two. but now, it’s just too fucking good. instead of lonely saturdays in, there are exciting saturdays out. with sombreros and smiles and kisses on cheeks and fingers. connected; for once. since january. since that late, late, night kiss in grand central during the orlando magic game. where mouths tasted like garlic and dark beer was called for. instead, now, a joint or two and a quiet night in bed. a light beer and a turkey sandwich. a morning doing lunges and squats on a gym mat. real. but also, scary. silent. labels mean everything in this country today, under the umbrella of social media. judgements; expectations. writing notes back and forth at three thirty in the morning. boners and empty words. sending songs over the interweb but never hearing voices or truths. no more lies, only honesty. like it should’ve always been. like she always wanted. but still, she wants. revenge? maybe, probably not. bare feet still on wooden floors; remember the basement bathroom mistake? dna on winter coats and threats of hurricanes and earthquakes? the years bring newness and oldness into a special wintery mix of nasty awful but come july, august, now soon september, bring football games and tents and promises meant to be kept. twirling spaghetti on a long fork with eyes starry and focused on green. hazel. freckles. haunted by a birthmark and ray ban sunglasses. not forever, for now, for a while, since… and then a kiss. like an eraser on a wipe board, forget. experience. this is good and great and fucking beautiful. as beautiful as anything can be when it’s covered in dust and low self esteem. exorcise and exercise and tomorrow is always new.