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I am not surprised not to be alone in this city of ghosts.
It feels disturbingly natural.
Who knows how many more of us dance in the shadows,
singing your name.
All make clay dreams under the milky twilight,
and when the morning sunlight shatters them to fragments of truth;
they simply pull themselves together and make new ones.
New dreams
fantasies
hopes
pretty lies.
Oh, how romantic.
Swell.
At least I have me to dance with.
In this city of ghosts.
Let the others collapse from the strain of your image.
I’ve let myself be damaged enough.
I’ve made my point.
Translucency of soul is the price we pay for loving.
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