Conversations With Ghosts and Memories

How are you? You ask.

Because that is what people like you do:

old friends who I once knew,

who I once shared a lifetime with.

You ask in polite consideration,

observing my put-together appearance

and taking solace in the fact that I have not changed.

Much.

I’m fine. I say in response.

Because I can’t come outright and tell you:

I’m shit lately, falling apart,

and I don’t really know

how to put myself back together again,

not after getting broken so thoroughly.

But maybe that’s just me being a little bitch.

Again.

That’s good. You say.

And I can tell you want to abandon this -

this pseudo-conversation that we’re attempting.

It’s strange, having once talked about everything and nothing

when there was absolutely nothing to say

but now all that’s left is talking about nothing,

and it makes me feel so very lonely.

Desperate.

Yeah. I nod.

That one word, I feel, speaks volumes

because it, like me, is so very alone in the world.

But for the life of me I can’t find anything else

- that or I can't be bothered for the life of me

to think of anything semi-intelligent to say.

Stupid.

I need you. I want to say.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

But I keep my mouth shut and watch you walk,

so sure of yourself as I once was.

You don’t spare me a second glance,

but I don’t expect you to either.

After all, we only used to be the best…

Friends.