I spoke to a ghost today

and realized he's a little more human now.

Less skeleton;

more heart.

Perhaps we was before too.

Maybe he wore body bags to throw shadows

over pieces of himself he was too afraid to show.

I heard him speak,

swelled the same air into my lungs,

and witnessed the burned bulbs

of the illuminated vacant sign.

I saw it flicker;

not sparks spoken from a void's lips,

but the glimpse of something whole.

He was hidden in a hole cemented

underground playing the part of a corpse,

but his remains weren't there.

He disappeared in fear of someone

actually putting him in a casket.

He was so afraid of hurting someone else,

dropping hand grenades from his throat,

spewing acid with his lips,

and carrying knives after admitting his love.

Confessions were always a hard pill to swallow.

Love was all he had to give,

but never to himself.

He was a garden waiting under soil six feet deep

with roots strong enough to ascend to the surface

and be kissed by the sun.

He gives flowers to people,

overwaters them,

and leaves his to die.

That is the absence of self love.

And it's not that he doesn't want to care;

he's just too tired.

Sadness holds the moon over his shoulders,

lights up the night,

and opens his eyes to all of yesterday's mistakes

and plants fear in what tomorrow brings.

No wonder he's too afraid to breathe.

I kissed him today.

His lips were warm.

My therapist says I can't bring

people back from the dead

and she always tells me not to try.

But honestly,

I don't think he's dead at all.

I heard a heartbeat.