I wrote a poem for you and then
looked up at the ceiling. I don’t
know why, because there’s
nobody there, or so I told myself,
but now, now I feel something
like eyes on me through a two-way
mirror or the haziness of an
early morning reverie.
I don’t know if you are or not, but
be with me,
be with me.
Tag: talking to ghosts
I wish they hadn’t given you
a front row seat to your own
private horror show.
I wish you could have stayed and just
watched mine from afar instead
and helped me pick up the pieces after.
You would have been equipped
with just the right broom to sweep
up the room, and then you could have
gone on your way, doing all the things
you had hoped you’d be able to do,
once upon a day.
