Ghosts

Ghosts 

Ghosts are detected only

by the misdirection

of their deeds;

the vase falling

in an empty room,

the creak in the attic floor,

the silence where speech

used to be.


There is a ghost that lives

on the tip of my tongue,

drawing words from my throat

like a fisherman.

Some explode, too delicate

for the change in pressure.

Others get crushed

into dust and deceit.


Who decided loneliness

is such a coveted point of view?

How can I say I’m sorry

when you can’t even see

that I’m gone?

 

From 'Story Telling' - Available on Kindle