Young men who chase after ghosts
            amuse me,
when I fight through haunted night
            to keep them at bay.
I want to say, “Just give them time;
            they’ll arrive,”
but I don’t want to spoil their fun.

Tissue frays; sharp becomes fuzzy.
            Night falls.
Look straight ahead, not side to side.
            Shades gather.
Don’t make eye contact or answer,
            or they will never leave.
There is no hope in their words, no joy.

“Do you remember me?” they mouth
            the words.
They have no breath to make the sound,
            no heat to warm the room.
I need a warm touch, not ghost words.
            I need a throbbing pulse,
Not the rustling of dead leaves.