Ghosts Live Within Skin

Ghosts live within skin as pale memories that swim across a body seemingly no longer touched by sunlight. Words from years gone by twist and gather form, they gain strength from nostalgia shaking the remembering witness to the core. Syllable spirits spiral slowly, unravel at a pace time tried to forget long ago. Questions haunt, hovering like spectres hanging answers-possible and resolutions-perhaps, from fingertips frozen in the ice of a yesterday remembered tomorrow. Ghosts live within flesh wounds, white faces rearing up in the steam of a coffee, in the mirrored fog of a shower’s condensation. In the misty breath of a bedroom, cold. Ghosts live within scars, half-moon scars, which hold funerals for the dead that do not die: before a wake, for the haunting past which embodies the ever-painful present.