Ghosts

The last of the rustic... *sniff*

An old fear, a dull ache, thought long gone, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Triggered by a word, an old photograph, a terrifying admission, a piece of music you’ve never heard before that unravels you, lonely agony, muted emotions, promises, and left-behinds. A house and its memories, a cramped balcony, a cityscape at night. A montage of photographs, a legacy of books, the end of a life, of lifelines and links. Chains and things, with patches of rust that you fear will grow. Of habit, a familiar pattern, a comfort, a home. Wordless drives at night dissolving in music, stars on a bedroom ceiling. Warmth, and hazy winter mornings, dusty curtains flapping in a gentle breeze, a familiar shape stretched out on a bed, a sleepy grin, a view etched in memory.