A ghost makes contact

Reaching its tentacles

Through the mist

Tentacles made of 

Stories, shared history, past trauma

Love and hate

The history I hold

In this meat-sack

I call a body

Some might say

I hold it in my heart

But I know

I hold it in my brain

Where I toss & turn the words

Churning the old phrases

And even conversations yet to happen

I go to the woods

To clear the tentacles

From my head

I should have been here all along

A neon green caterpillar 

Scoots in front of me

Oblivious to my existence

A small brown frog

Sits in the middle of the trail

Patiently waiting for me to cross

The creek babbles

Chattering and ranting

Whispering ideas through my ears

Despite the calm of the woods

I know I’ll let the ghost in

One way or another

I have my own tentacles

Sticky at the ends

I am ready to strip the layers of skin from us both

*Inspired by the Neil Gaiman poem The Hidden Chamber