Ghosts in my Heart

    The skies were dark grey with the impending storm. The air was cool and she could not believe that winter was knocking on the door once again. It was depressing to think how fast time was flying by.
Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked down the street, past all the bustling shops that were filled with lunch time shoppers. Side stepping people and bikes as they hurried to their next destination she felt so alone, so lost within the hustle and bustle of the world.

   Sitting down on a planter bench, under a tree that seemed to be bent on losing its leaves early she sighed softly.
Her heart hurt and it pissed her off that there were still songs, images, smells, tastes and memories that could slice open her heart in an instant. At least she could go a day without thinking about him, about what could have been. She knew she was a fool, a pretty damn big one to love someone that just did not give a shit about you.
She pulled out her journal and pen, flipping open to a new page she let the hurt slide from her soul to the paper. Her way of getting the poison out and somewhere else so it did not fester within.

I need something
I'm beginning to think
that I need anything
Speed in my veins
tar on my lungs
smoke in my throat
blood on my hands
Anything
to get rid of the
ghosts in my heart.

   The pain arched within her and she had to let out a hissing breath. She did not cry anymore, that particular thing had been wrung from her, not a tear was left within her. She felt dry, used up and ready to fly away on a breeze. Great Goddess, that really did piss her off. She felt weak for feeling the way she did. It should go away, this wanting, this desire she had for him. It should have been replaced by something else but it was as if it was impervious to any tactic she had.
Then seeing him, just being within proximity of him, made her heart flutter, her skin tingle and her mind to go completely insane. She felt as if she were the ghost, flittering about hoping he would notice and come rescue her.
She snorted with derision at that thought. She needed to get a grip.
She tucked the journal away, pulled out a clove cigarette and a lighter.
The flame touched the end of the cigarette and that flickering beacon let her know there was some warmth somewhere in the world.
She inhaled and let out a slow cloud of smoke.
There was the tar on her lungs and the smoke in her throat.
The blood was on her heart, not her hands and it danced with the ghosts.