- wisp -

two - afterimage

It's hard to say, really,

what happened.

When I died, I mean.

The wherewhyhowwhatwhens all blur together,

glimpses of images,

lasting little longer than the time it takes to blink.

i don't remember but the afterimage,

like a nightmare that you can't really recall,

instills a type of fear in me. 

Have you ever been so scared you couldn't even scream?

A faint outline of a figure,

the feel of hands, cool and dry and unrelenting,

on the nape of my neck.

don'tlookaway!

I used to draw, you know. 

Not very well, but I drew. 

It was a hobby. 

I had hobbies. 

I had a life.

It's different now.

I can't even hold my 

4B pencil anymore.

The smudges have faded from the tips of my fingers,

now pale and blank,

a bit transparent, 

like the mirror whose surface is covered by a layer

of smoke and fog. 

The world around me goes on

like the television program that has outlived its prime

seasons ago,

living on the fumes

of what it once was. 

Once upon a time

I was part of this television program.

Now I'm merely a spectator.

And yet I still live off the fumes

of what I once was.