Your Ghost Waits Outside.

By: Claire Kroening.

A quarter after midnight, your ghost waits outside. The world shifts— heavy from the unspoken weight of all the words we wish to say. Stars don't shine as bright without your light to guide, a tilt of earth free-falling like fishing nets to sea. A quarter after one, and I pray you hear my long distance call.

A quarter after noon, your ghost waits for me at the door. Ushered in barely-held tears. It hasn't been long since I last mourned the living, grasping for any indication you would hold on a little tighter, but now I mourn without light to your grave. A quarter after one, four, seven— your voice rings in my ears, steady drums in tune with dove-caught winds. Your face all but grins. I wish to hold you, bury your burdens in my heart and bear witness to what sparks.

A quarter after midnight. A day has passed, your ghost follows me as a splinting ache in my bones. There was only so much I could do. I wish you knew. I never gave up on you. Stars don't shine as brightly without your light. They fizzle out, one by one in this blur destined life. Find me in the next, I won't let go.