Your Ghost

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Says the shadow: “I painted this mir­ror for you last night, just as you asked many moons ago. I am an artist of broad, fren­zied brush­strokes when the night sweats seize me and shake me senseless.”

Says the ghost: “From this moment for­ward, every drop of you will be forever soaked into the pitch black. Noth­ing to see here, noth­ing to see. Isn’t that the way you like it?”

Says the shadow: “No longer will I stand here, star­ing back at your startled gaze, hop­ing to trace out a final solu­tion in the lines of your still frozen phizog.”

Says the ghost: “Did any­one ever tell you that you have a haunted coun­ten­ance? If you open your face much wider, your skin will split. If the wind changes dir­ec­tion, you’ll stay like that.”

Says the shadow: “For Lent, I am foreswear­ing every drop of my ran­cid bit­ter­ness and its sick­en­ing smell, repla­cing it instead with only the sweetest per­fumed thoughts.”

Says the ghost: “Not a chance. I will soak your sheets and push you bolt upright at four o’clock in the morn­ing, filling you with thoughts of what became of me. Yes, I could be moul­der­ing, but what if I’m merely sleeping?”

Says the shadow: “There are times when I am grate­ful for the small mer­cies of short-term memory loss. Once forty dawns have broken and forty dusks des­cen­ded, I may have for­got­ten the very fact of your damned existence.”

Says the ghost: “Show me the back of your left hand. Form a fist in my hon­our. You want to hit me, don’t you? You want to make me bleed, resort­ing to guts and animal viol­ence. But what’s that? Is that my name scratched on your sal­low skin? Who wrote it? Why has the ink not faded after all this time?”

Says the shadow: “Who are you again? Who were you? I never even knew you. Never even knew. Never knew. Never. And now I’ll never know. Your unmarked grave stays stony silent. It tells no tales, whis­pers no words.”

Says the ghost: “Shove your astig­matic eyes deep into the streaky glass and alu­minium. Breathe in, breathe out. You won’t mist me over, I prom­ise you. I am water­marked into your blood­rush and sur­ging through your veins.”

Says the shadow: “Yes. There­fore, I am alive.”

Says the ghost: “Alive is as maybe. Yet your faded face is such a mess. Your hair is in a shock­ing state. Your body has seen bet­ter days. You are a shadow of your former self.”

Says the shadow: “Still, I can feel my heart beat­ing. Still. It beats.”

Says the ghost: “Can I touch it? Can I feel the rhythm and pace of your mor­tal­ity? Maybe then I will believe, as I sense you slip­ping the shackles in which I held you for far too long.”

Says the shadow: “Too late. Your fin­gers freeze me. You gulped down your pound of flesh, con­sumed me, and spat out the dregs. I let you eat your fill. The rest is mine.”

Says the ghost: “Maybe I can make amends. For­give and for­get and start afresh. Call me and let me explain. Let me bring my white light into your darkness.”

Says the shadow: “I am hanging on the line. Hanging on your every word, with my lips brush­ing the mouth­piece. But your voice is bur­ied under antique dust. You are noth­ing more than crackles and static. You are robotic and drained of feel­ing. This call is con­cluded. There’s noth­ing more to say.”

Says the ghost: “So be it. Just humour me for one last time. Flick open those blood­shot peep­ers, cau­tiously and care­fully. I want to show myself to you. I want to be naked. I want to be back as all skin and bone, muscle and mucus, heart and soul. Feast your eyes on every one of my phys­ical imper­fec­tions. Let your gaze linger where it desires. Can you see me? Can you see?”

Says the shadow: “I see noth­ing. There’s no reflec­tion, no linger­ing pres­ence here. No whis­per­ing voice or softened foot­falls. This cor­ridor is merely dead air, empty as ves­sels. Just a hol­low hall­way, framed by mir­rors at each end. No one in between. You have lost. You have turned bad, gone for good.”

Says the ghost: “Shall I sleep now? Shall I rest?”

Says the shadow: “Forever, if you can.”

• Kristin Hersh
• Lyr­ics to Your Ghost