who forgets to feed the ghosts?

the ones that
with not-quite-there fingers,
play tunes down our spines
a note on each vertebra
d major and,
encore.

the ones that covet
our pearly white bones
and our wire thin sinews
and settle themselves inside us,
pretending to feel
the stretching of fingers and toes
and each whisper of oxygen past our throats,
like the taste of early mornings
and hospitals.

the one that
cradles his cold fingers around my heart and
hopes to keep it for his own.
jealous and starving for
thousands, and thousands
of years.

this ghost, he
clings to my shoulder and
whispers in my ear,
asks,
who feeds the dying
but not the dead?