write a poem about a cowboy who fell in love with a ghost... if u want to ;-)
this uh. really got away from me i’m sorry shdjbndjk
Haunted Love
“Best be careful ‘round these parts, boy,” the old man says as he pats you on the back. The only house around for miles is the old man’s so you’re not sure what he meant except the lights flicker at exactly ten past eleven every night.
About a month in there’s a footprint on the side of your bed that don’t match yours. You’re too drunk to deal with it — You wipe it off with your socks and go to sleep.
The coyotes scratch the walls every night and you know they’ll get bored and leave you be in a while but you’ve had it up to here so you yell, “Jesus fucking Christ can’t they let me sleep for one fucking night.” They never come back.
You’re leaning against the barn and you squint at the sun before throwing your dart on the ground to step on it and the old man asks you where you got your cowboy hat. You consider lying to him ‘cause you really like the hat but figure it’s no way to treat someone who takes you in, so you say you found it all dusty in the barn. You add that if he wants it, you’ll gladly give it to him. He shakes his head but he’s got mournful eyes.
The footprint’s back again. You sleep with a hammer. You trip over a 4x4 and you swear you hear a laugh. You clean your face after shaving one morning and a voice behind you says, “You’ve missed a spot.” You answer, “Thank you,” ‘cause you were raised right. You turn around expecting to see the old man. He’s not there.
The old man’s dog has taken a liking to you. You like him, too, but sometimes he barks at nothing above the ladder leading to an old mattress. You also caught him getting excited at the air and act as if he’s being petted. You wouldn’t think much of it if you couldn’t see the fur move like it does when you pet him.
For your birthday, the old man gives you a bolo tie; you don’t suppress the need to hug him. That’s when he tells you, “It belonged to my son and so does the hat you wear everyday since you found it.” You smile as you reply, “I hope he doesn’t come back to claim them.” The old man’s face falls as he sighs, “He won’t.”
You could punch yourself raw for not keeping your goddamn mouth shut. You’re about to apologize when he adds, “Harm’s already been done a year ago and you had nothin’ to do with it, boy. ‘Sides, hate for these things to go to waste.” There’s nothin’ in the world to say back.
Things start to appear out of nowhere: a cold beer on your table waiting for you after work, an extra blanket on your bed, a well-loved book on your night shelf. On the first page, the name “Stephen Tremblay” in chicken scrawl.
You get curious and start reading the book, re-reading the highlighted bits and making sure to reply to the annotations. The next evening, you notice someone has responded to your comments and it sure as shit ain’t the old man.
You should probably be scared, but if he was gonna hurt you, he would’ve by now. ‘Sides, the air’s clearer when you get to read his handwriting and you’re eager to find out what he has to say. You hype yourself up on the ride home. You put the book you just bought on your night shelf, “Thought we could read that one together since we went through the last one twice.” As soon as the words are said, it’s like there’s a woodpecker in your chest. You hope he notices that you chose the newest one his favourite author wrote. “That’s a great idea, bud,” he answers. You exhale.
He shows himself to you the next day when you invite him to lay on the bed beside you so you can read to him. He asks if he can sleep beside you and you smile as you nod.
You sleep better now that the bed’s colder.
