Ghosts

The hour wanes
like a daytime moon unseen.
Raindrops drip
brought by monsoon winds.
Is that thunder or a plane?
Do I miss you,
or am I insane?
 
All I know is
that I am haunted.
 
My mind teems
with memories
of species extinct,
your ghosts undead.
 
The truth is
that I am haunted.
 
If my brain bleeds
and the blood pours
from my arteries, my veins,
will I find your bones?
 
It is just
that I am haunted.
 
A flash of white,
a pain in the hand,
a whizzing machine,
all belong to a future I have now lost.
 
And it is because of this
that I am haunted.
 
Do I regret,
or simply forget
that it was my choice to flee,
that your ghosts are withdrawal symptoms
from a dream (a disease) I once had
of mirrors catching the light,
of teeth perfectly aligned?
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