Between Here and There

A ghost jumps out, assembling itself word by word as it begins to take on what seems familiar. You can almost feel it crawling into your skin, infiltrating your brain as if it knows the way around even your secrets. It's a past you, locked behind the lines of a poem written years ago that your eyes have just let out. You make room, greet him as a friend coming home after being away for so long. He seems unsure, unwilling to let go of something fragile hidden under the shadow of a line laid down half a lifetime ago. You tell him that you still have a place for it, somewhere safe, setting it free each evening to take wing and fly the circuit between here and there before coming back.