Are not shadows in windows
But whispers of lost things on the late drive home

Seeing myself walk the side walk down the empty street
To your house
I still remember the inside

But we're driving
Not walking
I'm watching
Not existing
Another dimension

And it doesn't matter anymore

I'm not scared of the promises sewn into the carpet on my Aunt's living room floor
I hear them occasionally in a song
Or a joke
And I think about how maybe they could've been real

But I don't have proof
No photos
No witnesses
Just a letter I never sent
A poem unwritten
Blood on the pavement
A candle not burning


Anymore.



Not haunted
Just

Observing.