The Ghosts

[kensley]

KENSLEY

He, too, is a kind of ghost. 

More ghost than storm some days, he thinks. Because so little remains now of who he had been then. He, too, is a thing of ruin. Look how the wind bends both toward and away from him. Think of all the things he could destroy.

But he languishes now in a place already destroyed. And he tries to remember. Not what this place had been because it had appeared to them already ruined. But all the other places he’s been, the lives he’s lived. 

So little remains now of who he had been then. And if he’s honest with himself, he barely remembers how the storm got under his skin. There are so many things Kensley does not remember and what he does remember does not often feel like it’s anything worth holding onto.

But there’s nothing else left.

And so it is in the Ruins he loiters and it is in the Ruins he sees them. Ghosts. And this is not so unusual in this place, not really. He has known many ghosts. His son, the monster, has shown him many ghosts. 

He tilts his stormy head and the leaves stir at his feet when he exhales and takes first one step, stiff, and then another toward them. Is it one or are there two? It’s hard to tell from here. With his confusion, the clouds overhead begin to darken. It always snows when he’s confused.

“Hello,” he tries, quiet. Because what better company for a ghost than other ghosts? 

( i swore my days were over of courting empty dreams )
( i worshipped at the altar of losing everything )