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.
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.