Her smile was a delicate thing, like holding a child's hand. Warm in a fearful sort of way. At least that's how I saw it.
Maybe that's why she left.
(more) I was something to her for a little while. I'm not anymore. Now I'm just a ghost.
I've been a ghost before, so I know how it works. You watch them take flight without you, long to be a part of their joy, ache as they discover a love for all the things you hoped to share. The passion you cemented into the life she's building lies unused, the space it was meant to mortar laid bare for others to use as they will.
It hurt, but I didn't allow myself to interfere. It's not right to haunt the ones you love.
Now I'm something to someone else. It's a strange feeling. I see how scary it cam be when someone builds themselves into the live you're living. How your falling becomes their falling, and how that weight bears heavily upon you, always.
In death, we come apart. In life, we build. There comes a point in all of our lives when we ask ourselves what it is we are building. I don't believe there's a right or wrong answer, but most of us feel the need to know.
Some build a monument to themselves. Some a monument to another. Some a bridge across continents. Some a tower toward heaven. And some people just lay stones in a haphazard, winding line from beginning to end, without ever really knowing why.
For a long time I just piled stones. Now I sense that I'm beginning to build a shelter. It's not what I envisioned, but maybe it's not so bad.(less)