(breadcrumbs)

 What is to be done for

the taciturn ghost who sneaks

through soundlessly

on its fingertips? Perhaps

it devours

memory; bends

time downward like a

fruit-laden branch

and feeds.

Sometimes

it dances behind closed

eyelids; or broods

under a porch light,

hands in its pockets.

When it departs, it dashes

out the window and to the

south at the speed

of never, its redshift

in tow like a

phoenix tail.

Does it mean harm? To

consume that which I hold

most dear and

leave me with

nothing but a

dream turned nightmare,

wrapped in apologies?

Or

does it simply

remember?