Sometimes I wonder,
Should I wander?
Should I leave this world,
Should I become a ghost of my being?
Then I remember,
I already am a ghost.
My memories and feelings are existing too much
grab my ankles and hold me back
like a plastic bag catching my shin in the wind.
The slight tug and pull draws my attention to you.
I have yet to know what you wanted,
and maybe I wouldn’t feel so haunted
if you would meet me once again.
He lives in a cold and empty house
Where lightbulbs hang from silver chains
And lonely ghosts live within
The cracking, creaking wooden walls
He leaves out his favorite books for them
And listens to footsteps beneath the floorboards
He plays piano,
a reclusive recital for empty rooms
And they keep each other's soft-spoken secrets