Letters to Lonely Ghosts

I've asked where you are,

and only echos of tired dreams answer,

playing along thought,

pushing me further along the lights of lost seasons;

a song vaguely remembered in the lamplight, but lost like smoke vanishing in the rain;

rain in a tired, forbidden

                                                                    sky.

                                                                Rain,

rain to pierce thoughts,

rain to find you,

rain pushing ,me aimlessly through this wandering world,

waiting for all my lost thoughts to return

with the sound of your voice.

Days in the rain,

Nights lost to insomnia,

talking to nothing,

talking to whatever angels fell from their path

and landed

at

my

feet,

Sketching;

lost,

content,

confused,

I tried to draw the sound of your voice;

lamplight,

rain,

wandering birds,

ink splattered angels.

Through shattered sunsets,

across seas of lonely writing,

while I waited in a memory,

I heard a voice,

And then there was nothing,

nothing but that song;

That song in answer

 to the windy days I spent alone.

It was your voice;

your voice that answered

every letter I had ever written,

That filled the ghosts of imagined company;

wandering along my conciousness,

Blind,

                      forgotten;

And then you.

I've written for so long,

and I've always written for you;

I've stood in the rain for centuries,

And I've always stood waiting for you.

I've written for so long,

pouring myself into paper

as if it were you;

I've written for so long,

cities,

nations,

lonely against the stars,

floating between

sensation

and

void,

floating lost,

sailing a ghostly blue abyss,

Starved for your touch;

starved for you to hang the lanterns

and guide us home;

Home,

to a candlelit field,

to the heart of a mountain,

to a night in the rain,

and as the clouds fall to meet us,

and a sea of paper arrows

pierces the sleep of dreamers,

your hand finds mine in the dark,

the rain shooting fire through our thoughts;

Hands meet,

wind finds us,

worlds intertwine,

and we're left with nothing but a sense of 

honest wonderment,

and a feeling

of a breath of cold air, lost and found,

rushing to our lungs

ending a long wait,

igniting thought;

Pencil across paper

your voice takes shape

I write the letters.

I've written for so long,

tired,

ink splattered thoughts painted on the wall

without breath,

I've written for so long,

waiting for the world to catch fire;

wherever I wander,

the ghosts have your name,

light rests on thoughts of you,

and as my hand moves, the paint

tells stories of you.

I've written for so long.

You wrote back.