the ghosts of what once was.

i look at our bed, then one you brought with you when you moved in and i want to set it on fire.  i want to stand and watch as it fills the room with smoke and let the smoke burn my eyes and my nostrils and my lungs while i mourn the death of what i thought we were.

this bed is full of the ghosts of what once was.  they grope me as i pray for sleep or death, or as i lay there, passed out drunk.  they follow me to the front door when i leave every morning touching my hair and the back of my neck.  i can hear them breathing.  it's almost like they're alive.

when is it going to stop?