How to Be a Ghost

We are alone, and we are alive.
No longer slaves, we reach out
with calloused hands
toward living silence, but
our heart startles us
with blood.

We who loved the whispering woods,
the evening light behind the house,
the path by the river,
the dirty red lights shining
on wet city streets –
the sweet, soundless sorrow
of being free.

When we return,
the breeze and the dawn will
return as well, flourish
under our step.
The cats will know.
We will have walked home,
to live where we will live.

We are the cold of winter
that drips under your collar
while you fumble for keys.
We lurk in shivered shadows
watching for the moment –
the moment when you are
unguarded.

We are the bravados,
that make fools act the part
in the ways of love, and pain,
and the way the two are never distant,

We are the lines you ignore
until you have crossed them.

We are gossamer nights,
and days of tangled sheets -
memories that hold you to your heart.

Nostalgia is our meat and drink.
Not the thing, but what you thought of it,
how it changed you.