My ghost whistles down the street,
he knows I won’t get far.
I chase turns until I lose myself,
Only the shadows know where we are.
The spectre looms.
It watches me in crowds
– the shoulders I pretend to laugh over.
He shakes his head when I turn my back;
distances somehow take us closer.
The spectre blooms.
We hug when no one’s watching.
Under lights both dim and warm.
Only one here can live with the memories,
the other has to stay strong.
We hold hands and then we cry, till we reach the end of the road.
The morning light has become too bright, and now he has to go.
Tomorrow I can find another place to hide
or tomorrow I can let go.
The spectre fades
though our bond was strong.
Will he come back? I don’t know.
Follow my work @keepers.of.the.lost.art