When I was younger I could see ghosts.
A tall woman swaying a lonely dance, arms stretched high above her head
A man laying cold in my parent’s bed, head turned to face the open window
A little girl standing at the end of a long asphalt street in a lilac nightgown, calmly watching the trees
I do not know if they could see me, alone in their quiet pockets of time
I do not know if they were even really there
They did not speak to me then
They speak to me now
Forgotten conversations fold into rustling pages of whispers
Sorrows, anger, joy
Perhaps my eyes are now too weary, but I know them still
A touch upon my cheekbone as I lay in bed
Fingertips sliding over the dust on my bookshelf
A quiet knock upon my door
A product of my loneliness, a product of my desire
My heartbeat has never been so loud