A Faint Monologue

I would gladly tell you I'm not that ghost in your attic. I would gladly swear I'm not that haunting on the roof.
Disembodied though not a liar.
What is a ghost like me but a part of you that has parted ways with parts of yours?
The hair is leaving the head,
The fingers are leaving the hands,
The nails protrude from touch,
The eyelashes detach from sight.

What am I but they all one step further?
What is a ghost like me but a part of you that finally got dettached, leaving you behind?
Perhaps tired of stalking you, perhaps bored to be ahead - content to be close, content to tread closely.

I'm a ghost, a part of you that finally evaded your being. I am now that part of you that ceased being yourself. That finally got free...

and died.

I do skulk around sometimes, here and there. I do show up with my ghastly face and some pale grin, or sometimes I manifest my voice for you to hear... But what are those if not similar to footprints left in the dust and grime, fingerprints etched on the glass window, hair found on the floor, breath clouding the mirror, eyelashes carried away by the rushing wind... A lost drop of blood, a fallen tear.

I could gladly and most convincingly tell you I am not the ghost over your roof. I would tell you I'm not haunting your attic, hovering above you, lost parts of me.
Disembodied, though. Not a liar.

Créditos da imagem: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Death-and-the-Maiden-364335308