I never believed in ghosts. But now,

I look out for them

inhabiting old spaces,

cold and dirty and

ready to make me believe

they exist.

Maybe afterwards

— when the haunting

becomes commonplace —

you will reach out to me and

tell me it’s alright to

be scared. To be wary,

even, of the dark places

so old that light has forgotten

about them.

You’ll tell me I’m right

about everything except

what makes you move

so deliberately, so discreetly, away

from me.

You’ll tell me that death

is inevitable, even as I

am cajoling you to wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.