How strange that those who were once the world are gone from you and cannot be found not on Facebook or in the phone-book Not in your memory where you tried to hold them as a memento of better, of softer times but like so many things over which you thought you held sway you have let them slip Somewhere they still breathe but to you they are ghosts Their faces sometimes even their names are like erased words on a chalkboard You can still detect the outlines but you cannot decipher what they mean How strange that those who were once your heart have dissipated into the ether and cannot be felt not on your skin or in your veins Not on your tongue Somewhere they still breathe and they walk and they laugh and they love and they live complex lives of epiphany and bliss and heartbreak but to you they are ghosts
Max Mundan, Living Ghosts
© David Rutter 2015
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