You don’t knock on my door anymore.
I’m left to that resonance of your last knock that ping pongs around my apartment like an invisible pinball.
I’m left to the vibrations like our hands intertwined on the keys of a piano pressed down hard with our feet on two pedals, letting our love ring long and loud but slowly dying down like a sick old dog.
I’m left to wonder if I still hear anything and at what point does living in memory become a madness.
A necklace, a gift, left to sleep in the bottom of a box.
Who’s to say that I’d wear it as a noose and not as the physical amalgamation of that song that comes on and transports you through time?
When we set things down to not carry them any longer, is it to forget or because they are already always there?
I look in the mirror as I wrap your necklace around my neck and watch as it sinks into my skin.
I hear a knock on my door but I don’t know if I’m home or not to answer it.
ghost #62 is.
Photo: Matthew T Rader
South Broadway Ghost Society 