untitled 7

I didn't want to dance with your ghosts, but they were there, and the music was playing. And now I'm tired:
With every Dear John letter, I think 'I never thought I'd get here.' There is time, though, before you read that letter--
So throw me against your walls. I want you to pull me apart and like all the places where I fit together. I want to make you gasp, release sighs like specters, floating above your bed--a cloud of ghosts, pleasure past and intangible.
I'd like a silent violence this time. I'd like to leave with all my parts, clean and reassembled. I'd like to leave you with your ghosts.