I find myself hoping to be
merely a ghost to you,
a figment,
in memory and remorse.
Something transcendent and unmoving,
causing a lasting unsettledness to your existence.
Never opaque enough to hold.
But the truth is,
years later, I do not know
if the idea of me in my own
is enough to haunt you,
or if my name crosses your mind at all.
And a part of me hopes that
you will never behold what I have become,
something sacred to my body and spirit and mind.
But that idea that the girl I was,
in your head and heart,
will never exist as the woman I am now,
gives me peace in the sense
that I will never again be that very ghost,
because I have outgrown your wildest imagination.