the ghost of what I want 

haunts my waking life

drives me to great lengths

hangs me from great heights 

 

desires laid out in front of me

like a vista from a hill

I descend slowly then I 

tumble and fall

 

into the valley

the fruit’s so succulent 

like a summer in Italy

captured on an olive oil label 

 

the ghost of what I want

doesn’t let me rest on Saturdays

I’ve got a week of catching up 

after being spun all week long 

 

I almost become myself 

for a few minutes that evening 

before sleep takes what it needs from me 

pulling those ghosts down