what kind of ghost are you ?
cemetery ghost .
asleep under the growing moss, blinking centuries in every bat of my eyelashes. how long i’ve been asked to rest, the language i first loved in is buried with me ; cities burned to ash and sprouted new. there are days i don’t recognize the sky. i don’t believe i’ll taste life again, but spend nights wandering in the grass if only to miss where the reeds might meet me. immovable and undizzied, time drips from its rusted faucet.
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