The Ghost

I still believe in ghosts.
I’ve seen them out of the corner of my eye,
Or in a passing glance.
Perhaps a smile has left me with this curse.
They write letters to me from time to time.
Sometimes, if I dare, I write back.
In the dark, I can still see their shadows.
In the light, they look just like you.
If I pause, just for a moment, I might even hear them whisper,
Calling out from beyond the beyond
And into my fears.

I found one in particular that struck my fancy,
A daunting dawn of past sunrises.
She follows.
Hollowed out, I see her fill herself with trinkets and tinker with the light and dark.
A work of art, she is.
If I could’ve painted, oh, I would’ve painted her.
Moonlike skin, silk-white dress, eager smile – she wants to come back home.

Some say you can come back;
Others say you’re gone for good,
But still I find myself in the cold of night,
Beckoning under my breathe, saying,

Are you still there?

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