When you were born, the stars and the galaxies fought over about who got to be in your eyes.
The clouds fought over who got to be in your hair, the rain placing itself lovingly in your breathing.
The four forces of the world were torn to create you.
The forests burned and the sun fell out of the sky just to create your addicting smile.
This world is haunted, now.
All of the supernatural held in a house.
I watched inside the house of your murderous ghosts to see the different traumas, more than an infinity of commas to space out the different ones.
They screamed out hate and pissed on love.
You stood in the balcony of the house and preached love and shat on hate.
I'm sorry for creating these ghosts. I never meant to kill and not burn the bones of our memories. I'm sorry.
I know these were caused by my harshness in part in a concoction of a bad situation to create fear in what was once supposed to be a place without fighting, ghosts or tears much like a quiet pier of a peer peering into the depths of the universe which we understood, because we took the time to get to know each other and because we could.
But now we can't. Now we're limited by constraints which are even restrained by your mother.
And I caused that too.
Now that I've confessed my sins the house is exorcised.
Distance is hard.
Copyright © Marco Soto | Year Posted 2017