ghost

Once I craved sonnets and somber words. Metaphors, scenery, context, dialogue.

Descriptions of the most stimulating, passionate scenes and relationships life may witness.

I was sturdy - a cracked foundation, sure, but sturdy. Filled the pieces in my own way. 

The snow no longer chills my bones - no more than the sun warms them. 

I no longer write… no longer yearn. No longer do I have an appetite or relation to the words that once bloomed within me.

Becoming someone else is easy to do when there’s none of you left.

What do you call something like that? 

Someone like that?