Without Ghosts

Without ghosts,

Your reflection becomes your real face.

Trees no longer make a sound like wind

On days the wind isn’t blowing.

You search in vain through your memory

For a favorite color from childhood.

Funny name.  But not vermillion.

You miss the letter X, wish it would appear more often

In books, on signs.

Your mornings linger, like all other mornings,

Listening to Vivaldi, buttering a muffin,

Reaching for your phone.

You play with your cup while you catch at indistinct names,

Watching something no bigger than a hair fall through your fingers.

In it is everything you’ve lost.

The world doesn’t care if you’re alone.

 

Let the ghosts return

And fill you up again.

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