i've been seeing ghosts for
as long as i can remember now.
they sit idly on my bed,
making small talk with
the skeletons who play poker
on my closet floor.
they call. flush, straight,
empty hands as the cards fall through
the gaps between their fingers.
together they brush worries
out of my hair, one by one.
they have nothing else to do,
and neither do i.
as strands of my hair are
placed gently behind my ear.
they speak to me,
but mostly among themselves.
"i can't tell you when it gets better, kid.
i can't tell you if it ever does."
it's comfy here.
