My Phantoms Poem by Samantha Serrato

There are people who grow into one,
One is people who grow into others like weed or undergrowth,
Trying to find a path towards the light.

Every root entangled,
Ridiculously intertwined as strongly woven chains,
or some mess someone decided to leave behind for being too complicated to unravel.
Something uncomfortable indeed, and wild.
But ultimately beautiful when left behind.

People leave, not meaning to hurt or desolate,
but in an unconscious search for beauty,
and pulchritudinous chaos.

One carries one's phantoms wherever one is,
Their absence is present,
A thick, tangible nostalgia
and heavy over one's everything,
Their existence comforts and stalks the ever-aching stabs through one's chest,
That wound that hurts the most is outside one's body,

A million miles away,

Flooded somewhere in the pacific,
Gone far away to a land of beauty and history
Prisoner among the grassy countryside surrounded by dew and remainings of an ancient war.
Buried deep down within the ashes of some cemetery.
Praised by a crowd of indifferent, frozen, broken, blacked-out hearts.
At ease by the fireplace cozied out between warm blankets and loving hugs.
Or lost somehow in a sea of happenings.

There are people who grow into one,
and I've grown into each of you,
to never forget you,
to never let go,
to not even try.

To carry the memory of your love,
the warmth of your hugs,
the loud of your laughs,
the glaze of your eyes,
the sweetness in your words,

And though we are not anymore,
I'll carry with me the times we were.