The Ghosts

"Times given are approximate, but correct"

They whisper around my legs,
Ache through and ring hollow in my chest.
A feeling of absence and I know he is gone and lost.
Each one as special and beautiful as the last ghost that passed through me,
leaving the inside of my chest bloodless and icy.
I know, now, the exact moment it has happened
Practice, practice makes perfect.
October Nineteenth at one-twenty-two,
Three-ten December Second, eight-oh-four April Eleventh.
They pass through me and I cannot say a word
The silence hangs, profoundly painful and I close my eyes
I’m sorry, they say, this is why, it’s work, its life, it’s fishing as they slowly dissolve into mist and memory
A hope to stave off starvation broken
I wonder why again and again
because the whys are so much smaller than I am.
On their death bed, no one ever said I wish I had watched more TV.
I hope someone regrets not holding me in his arms