The ghosts in me

There’s a wee ghost lodged in the corner of my brain.

It’s also in the depths of my deepest sighs.

It’s a memory of crisp, cold fresh air.

Humid and damp and more like rain than dry.

It’s the colors of grey stone, dark and foreboding when wet, but gold-pink-and-blue tinted in the sun.

The ghost has a neighbor.

The neighbor is bright sunshine and green, green grass.

The smell of dog fur and blossoms.

It’s the best food in the world, with the best dinner conversation.

Naps in the afternoon, with heavy rain falling.

Both ghosts cohabitate peacefully. They like each other.

They conspire against me in my quiet moments.

They taunt me with what I don’t have and what I yearn for.

Let me know that where I am is not where they are.

But I am grateful for their company for I can just close my eyes and taste the air and smell the fur and feel the grass below my feet and taste the wine and see the colors. I can hear the laughs and taste the beers and remember the hugs and the kisses and it all feels less far away, even if just for a moment.

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