Ghost
There is a quiet art to being a ghost
before you have even learned to die.
To move through a room like a sudden breeze,
stirring the curtains but leaving no trace,
unheard against the loud fabric of the day.
The world looks right through the stillness,
their eyes catching only the brightest lights,
never the soft shadows that hold them up.
It is a heavy thing to be a background melody,
playing softly while the crowd ignores the song.
Yet, there is a secret freedom in the erasure.
To watch the world without being watched,
safely tucked away behind a glass wall,
carrying a universe of unspoken thoughts
that no one ever thinks to ask for.
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