ghosts
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Nobody tells youthe dead follow detectives home. Not like ghostsin white dresses. Nothing so mercifully obvious. They followin smaller ways. A photographthat will not leavethe back of your eyelids. A child’s bedroom. A mother’s scream. The soundof somebody askingwhy. They follow youthrough the front door, sit beside your childrenat dinner, crawl beneath the sheetsbetween youand…
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A nameless spirit survives as a cold draft beneath old floorboards, haunting the house with the memory of a human name it forgot.
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A goodbye can become a scar, but silence teaches the mind to build whole conversations inside the empty space.
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Some ghosts are still alive—the people who vanish without funeral, explanation, or goodbye and leave silence to do the haunting.
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The village feared the crows; she listened to them, carrying feathers, wildness, and a name older than the one she was given.
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A familiar commenter keeps returning to the same haunted houses and poems, becoming a quiet companion at the edge of the lantern light.
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At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
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Black-laced branches, a cracked stone step, and a doorway barely touched by candlelight mark a house that does not wish to be fully seen.
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Maybe ghosts smoke too; something upstairs answers while the candle throws impossible shadows and the exhaled smoke never comes back out.
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The candle bows toward an empty doorway before she understands the old house is not as abandoned as it appears.
Between Bruises & Blooms 