For Sale


A house once so full of life, so alive
Is now a lonely graveyard made
Even lonelier by ghosts.
Ghost memories.
Ghost objects.
Ghost meanings.
Each day a reminder
that I’m nothing
but a ghost myself.
No longer full of life.
No longer alive.
Dead inside.
And dying outside.
And waiting for what can
Never return.
Deconstructing the foundation
of our lives,
brick by brick
and
frame by frame,
until nothing remains
but vacancy,
a vacancy once filled
with so much promise.
A promise now for sale.
 




Waffle House


It was a game we played
on road trips down south.
“Waffle House,” we’d scream,
when we saw
the yellow signs 
with the black lettering.
“Waffle House,”
the true song of the south.
It was a simple game, really.
Whoever said it first, got
a point.
She always won,
as she did at most things.
But now that she is gone,
So is the game..
But the signs remain.
I passed them the other day
on a road trip down south.
But this time,
I played alone.
And even though I won.
It just wasn’t the same.
Nothing ever will be.
 




Little Sister


When you were 3,
You took my hand
as we walked
into the sea.
 
When you were 6,
I wasn’t surprised when
You took my hand
as we walked
into the sea.
 
When you were 9,
I was sure it would be the last time
you took my hand
as we walked into the sea.
 
When you were 12,
I was surprised when
you took my hand
as we walked into the sea.
 
When you were 15,
I watched from afar as
I raised my hand
and waved goodbye
as you walked into the sea.