After a death
It is the living that haunt their homes
All the lonely cries in the dark
And sleepless nights
Trying to feel the dead in anything
Other than memories
Recalling them endlessly anyways
Stories told like seances
As if somehow it will keep them here
A little longer
Eventually forgetting to eat
To breathe
Exist
Quiet whispers
Endless pacing
Silent visits
Rearranging the cutlery
1000 times in the night
To pass the time

After a death,
It is always the living
That become ghosts of themselves