There is a ghost who watches me write,
its breath soft against the windowpanes of my heart.
It does not rattle chains or moan—
no, it sighs,
a hush against the hollow places.

It sits where sorrow once bled bright,
where longing still sews itself into my bones
with thread too fine to see,
too strong to snap.

It watches my pen scratch its slow way across the paper,
tugging memories from the places I have buried them
under folded prayers and broken sleep.

I do not fear it.
I know this ghost.
I have worn its shadow like a second skin.
I have called it by name on nights when the silence
sounded too much like goodbye.

Now, it only watches—
a watchman at the edge of my becoming,
a mourner for all the versions of me
I had to lay down
so this one could rise.

It smiles, maybe, or maybe it’s just the flicker of the lamp.
Either way, I write.
Either way, I live.

And the ghost—
the ghost stays awhile longer,
cradling the space between the words.