echoes | poetry | wattys2018

86

she never believed in ghost,
and yet when she faces the mirror,
memories of her past flashes back,
drowning into his eyes; a shade of blue,
to his nose that breathes the sweet scent of her hair,
down to his lips, stained with tint of red,
covering hers.
she, then, closes her eyes,
as if his warmth is embracing her again,
feeling the softness covering her mouth,
warm breathes soothing her nose.
as if they were still together,
but nit anymore.

—ghost stories