With Painted Words

Ghost

A palm twisted into the ground, I want the grass to cut me deep and prove that I can bleed, prove my heart is beating. My eyes survey the stains, morning dew glazing the green and making my hand an imperfect emerald with the curving flaws of fingerprints running through it. I know that I am not the only one, I can feel the other, the image that watches and runs glass fingers through her hair, neither dream nor memory but crouching at my side with her own stained palms before my face. Her eyes are invisible, yet still they beg to know. Is she the ghost here, or am I?