The First Night After I Died

I'm kind of obsessed with ghostly love stories.

In each hand,

a flame.

We watch them swirl up into the night sky.

They're lonesome,

like us.

I like them already.

Too bad they're leaving.

Everybody leaves.

Except you.

You never have.

I know you will.

I hope you won't.

I don't always like you

(you call me a crybaby

even though I only cried the one time I broke my wrist

and you push me around

and you call me a sissy

and you make fun of my girly hair

and you run faster than I do

and you're older

and I hate you.)

I hate you.

I love you.

What's the difference?

Is there any difference?

There's no difference.

I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.

Well now I have.

Good.

Good.

Goodnight.

Go away.

No.

Please.

Okay. Goodnight.

I love you.

I hate you.

I fall asleep

with your hand holding onto mine.

It doesn't occur to me

to wonder

why I can't feel it

until after I'm asleep

and the dreams are stronger

than they ever were

when I was alive.

Author's Note

HELP! I've fallen in love with poetry and I can't get up. :S

Reviews

[Robyn Rhiannon]

Ooooh, refreshing structure. Love this section:
"
Go away.

No.

Please.

Okay. Goodnight.

I love you.

I hate you.

I fall asleep"

Great work!