Ghosts are ever-fading memories.
Just echoes of things that were once, and never can be again,
no matter how much you want them to.
They come in flashes, always snatched away just before the picture clears.
They come in whispers of that voice you don’t want to admit that you’ve forgotten,
Too loud too ignore or push away
Too soft to hear.
They’re cruel, taunting impressions, never enough, never fully present.
It would be almost better to never see or hear them again,
But you’d miss that desperate, savage love that pulls you
Reaching, always reaching for the past.
For the shadows of days well spent,
For the echo of joyful laughter,
For the time when you were carefree and innocent.
Before the cold hand of grief touched your soul and froze you.
Before that awful hole was torn inside you.
No matter where you go or what you do, it can never be filled.
But you don’t want to forget.