Dead Ghosty

She didn't quite remember how it happened. She remembered she was walking home in her summer saddles, a new pair in brown, and SOHO in the night was beautiful, upheaving itself towards the soft wind. It smelt summer already; she saw gals giggling with their young love outside on the bench and, chairs, tables and people were laid outdoor to welcome the romantic summer. All seemed perfect among the concrete CBD except that she needed to get laid.

Her neck was hurt, that kind of hurtness that blew her a dreaded feel as if she had got numberless little tumors in the veins planted inside her long-suffering neck, annoyingly angering her. I want to be healthy---there are so many things to do, she yelled with a coldly disdainful front. She yelled again.

Then suddenly, she was in a movie, in a life project, in a dead code. She saw herself walking fancy walk on the street, people around numb-faced, the entire world mercied into black and white. She was floating, given a power to see the truth, that moment short but immortal, that she sensed her death and undying soul.

How silly people were dining in the restaurant, transparent confusion through the huge openly desired windows, and single pretty women were alone somehow, so hollow and proud, all the truth missing. She's deadly dead, you see. She's not a spolied writer any more.

Loss, and limited space, and the heavy air, all had taken her over. She's yelling somehow. She's dead. And she's a ghost in June.