You left
without saying a last goodbye.
Our last kiss is still there

One last hug was still there,
quiet space
between your shadow and my arms.
One last endless cuddle was still there,
waiting on the couch,

One last moment of love was still there,
One last togetherness was still there,
untouched,
unlived,

So many maybes...
so many “what ifs”
carried like petals
on the wind of time.
And still,
I whisper them
as if you might turn back—
just once—to hear them.
Not so we could begin again,
but so I could meet your gaze,
and quietly let you see—
that solitude,
carved by your absence,
has become a temple,
and how cold I have become.
Cold, dead emotions for your presence—
I don’t want it again.

Within solitude
Forever speaking to ghosts
Who never speak back.

(ACT ONE: DRAFT)

STAGE DIRECTIONS
Basement.
Dim bulb swaying.

Center stage:
A battered leather wooden chest,
straps and buckles cinched
like a ship at storm.

Upstairs: (Built out upper stage)
A woman, white hair in soft pins,
her chair angled toward a radio
hissing static and old jazz.

She eats quietly.
Spoon tracing circles in her bowl.

CHARACTER NOTES

THE WOMAN – seventy-eight
hands like river stones,
her face a map of soft summers
and lonely winters.

THE CHEST –

Unseen:
heavy with letters, photographs,
perfumed silk,
a man’s pressed shirts,
and the ache of two bodies
that once loved
without mercy.

Seen:
Its sides swell -
the subtle shape of a man’s hands
behind it's leather,
pressing out,
clasping the straps.
Fingers circle
the locked buckles.

THE PAST LOVER – Voice only.
He exists as vibration
inside surrounding wood,
breathing
in response to the Woman.

SCENE PROGRESSION

Lights fade up.
The chest breathes.

Pause.

Buckles flex.
A groan,
like an old stair.

She glances down
through the floorboards.
She does not rise.

(radio goes silent)

Eyes closed,
she whispers:
HUSH NOW.
I REMEMBER YOU.
I REMEMBER.

And then
nothing.

Her silence
is part of the score.

ACTION CUE

The chest swells.
Wood stretching.

A strap snaps.

A letter flutters
up the stairs,
as if seeking oxygen
and lands
at her feet.

She rises.
Fetches rope, duct tape,
an old belt.

Descends the stairs.

Ties the memory down again.

Her hands shake,
but she is precise,
as if dressing a wound.

She ascends.
Sits back in her chair.
Spoon in hand.
Mid‑air.

Radio on:
a soft trumpet solo,
weary with promise.

The chest downstairs
begins to thump
and inhale.

A low whisper
seeps through the floorboards:
her name.

Her hands tremble.
She does not answer.

The chest exhales once,
long, hollow,
full throated,

and the house answers.

FADE TO BLACK

Only the sound
of her spoon
falling
to the floor.

The sure fire cure,
To a spirit rotting your mind,
Is to leave your spirit behind.
Find somewhere where nobody knows your name,
Except the trees who know everything,
Rebuild your spirit there.
Fresh as the smell of pine,
Strong as the flesh of oak.
Remember what you were born to do,
And do it more.
When changing tradition,
Or burning books of lore,
You must keep the few that remain true,
Then dance in the ashes of the rest.

i am on my bed, laying on my back
i am looking at the ceiling
i get a strange sensation
that i am not alone in the room

i have laid here on this bed
a million times before
but there is something different today
there is an eerie mist moving around

i see figures walking around in silence
some i know, some i don't
some from the present some from the past
they've all come to say goodbye

you see, i am dying
the next few moments will be my last
don't feel bad, i have no regrets
at least, i'd like to think i don't

the mysterious figures hover over me
they look at me with burning anger in their eyes
i do not know these figures
i do not know why they are angry at me

then i recognize one figure
he is a ghost from the past
he is the ghost of the book i never wrote
you see, i once wanted to be a writer

then i recognize another
he is the ghost of the orphanage
that i never built for the street kids
you see, i once wanted to help the poor

then i recognize yet another
he is the ghost of the racial equality
that i never fought for
you see, i once wanted to fight for justice

yet another ghost i recognize
this time, it’s the ghost of adventure
the adventures i never went on
you see, i once wanted to travel the world

then i see a familiar ghost
this is the ghost of all the missed opportunities
missed chances to help mankind
you see, i once wanted to be a humanitarian

ah, here is one i know well
it is the ghost of sobriety
something i didn't fight hard enough for
you see, once i dreamed of being a teetotaler

I see many more ghosts
now i recognize every single one of them
i find it hard to withstand their anger
they are angry because i never brought them to life

now i understand their anger
all my life i have neglected
my responsibility to give them life
so they must remain dead forever

the ghosts are getting ready to carry me away
one look in their eyes and i see
that it won't be to paradise
i am powerless to protest

heed this warning, you among the living
learn from my mistakes
do not waste your talents
make use of every opportunity

it is too late for me
but you still have time
never let a chance to help
others pass you by

Before loving a ghost,
understand--
it will be a tricky business.

A ghost will not wear the dress you like.
She will ignore
the meal
the Merlot
and the Mozart.

A ghost does not believe in the future that you've planned.
To a ghost,
the future is feathers made of fog
on a bird that flies away before it is born.

A ghost will not wear your ring.
She will not bear your child, or even your touch.
She is an airy
indigo
butterfly
that can hurt you, and will.

I’d break into our old family home
if it was still standing tall.
Electrical cords and floorboards;
that I would finely comb.
Searching for traces of us; big or small.

I should’ve taken the tub,
and the dryer was brand new.
I know they ripped up each stump and stub
and the yellow roses the year they finally grew.

This is just a missing piece,
this is where I used to live.
Memorized the trees and the streets,
and the faces I would greet,
to go see it again; what I wouldn’t give.

I’d break into our old family house,
if it was still standing tall.
As I dowse, no sound or a mouse,
was it ever even there at all?

Why did they lose the shed?
Why did they cover the lot?
It looks better in my head
than the day it was finally bought.

This is just a missing past,
this is where we used to coexist,
those rare family moments that I miss.
They’re now lost to the abyss,
I don’t remember the last.

I’d go back in time but
I wouldn’t want to impose.
Truth is the door is shut,
realize that road is closed.

I’m sad I don’t live there anymore,
I grew up; have my own walls and own floor.
A woman who loves me and her I adore,
but these thoughts still wash ashore.

He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.

The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.

"I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came."

Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.

He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.

He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.

Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.

The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.

He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.