You once told me that you died,
That the you I knew was gone and buried six feet under everything you’ve done.
You say that you’re so different now,
That you can’t trust anyone or that you can’t even believe what I say.
I had a gathering of my own for your passing and, surprisingly enough,
I was the only one in attendance.
I’m not really a flower guy,
Because flowers wither and fade away;
I’m more like a kiss, or maybe a feather-on-the-shelf kind of guy,
So I left my last words at your casket,
The only ones I knew to say to you anymore.
It wasn’t much, just a few simple words, meaningful enough.
When I walked away, it felt so strange.
I felt like you were trying to call out to me from wherever you may be in the afters.
A faint whisper, but just there.
Just right there.
Audible and very, very telling.
It tickled behind my ear and brushed my neck, and I felt the coldest chill when you said,
Do you believe in ghosts?