Most ghosts I know are still breathing.

I see them in the things I want to tell them,

the time we could’ve had.

They’re a shadow on my threshold,

whispers in my ear.

A simple fact of life,

but it feels like being hollowed out.

They don’t have to die for me to mourn.

x

Most ghosts I want to see again.

I’m tired of whispering shadows,

distant glimpses of someone else’s path.

But they walk their road and I walk mine,

and they split long ago.

Other ghosts haunt me like wraiths,

in fears and nightmares.

They plague my weakness and spoil my milk.

I feel them like a coming storm, 

coming just over the horizon,

if not in person than in form:

Betrayal and cruelty,

selfishness and abandonment.  

A twisting knife.