Little Ghost (Poetry)

I still hear you sometimes —
in that half-moment between sleeping and waking —
an echo from the walls of your old room
like a long-held breath suddenly escaping,
the air remembers you,
recalls a snatch of music from your radio,
a muffled cough, the creak of worn-out springs.


Something of you lingers, even now —
in particles of dust, the stray dropped hair
caught on out-grown collars — dresses hang
their creased envelopes still scented-sweet with you.

A welcome ghost, you move,
forever restless, through the revolving doorway of my thoughts,
your shadow always present, almost seen,
your voice a whisper in the dawn’s cool distance,
calling, calling, calling
through a dream.