Ghosts

How am I to feel real
With this incessant patter of doubt?
We speak such empty sounds
As we pass through eachother
And awaken with eyes closed;
I can’t see you infront of me.
Like ghosts, our lips press
Against the history of things,
Yet do not feel.
We glide along ignorant of the end,
Wandering lost in an isolated time.

Cold bodies lie in the darkness,
Awkwardly waiting in love’s afterlife.

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