lean isle
The house is quiet,
but not empty.
We hear footsteps we never took,
words we never spoke,
lingering in the still air.
We made this,
piece by piece
with every lie,
every goodbye,
every moment we turned away.
The ghosts are not strangers.
They wear our faces,
carry our voices,
and look at us with eyes
we tried to forget.
They don’t haunt to hurt us;
they only want to be seen.
But we hide from them,
as if they weren’t born
from our own hands.
This silence is ours,
these shadows, ours.
The ghosts only stay
because we don’t let them go.
If we could face them,
call their names,
maybe they’d leave,
and we could finally
breathe again.
rapid salmon
worn girder
cerulean needle
restive saddle