Ghosts of Christmas Past

You are here-

in the sandpaper 

sitting in the back 

of my mouth;

the boulder, 

silent in my 

stomach. 

The hair 

on my neck 

raises to greet you, 

the black of 

my eyelids 

paint your portrait.

Nobody else 

can see you, 

I know,

as they 

laugh along 

with the track, 

push carts 

through crowded 

aisles, 

plan menus 

filled with 

favorites 

you will never 

eat, 

unbothered by 

your shadow. 

I am the only one.

I wish 

that made you 

less than real 

to me.