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
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
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 "Storytelling" by Jason Messinger
