He feels them.
The woman who exists, but not yet for him.
He can hear her gently humming,
swaying lightly through the kitchen,
the room he chose on her behalf,
knowing it’s the one she’ll use
more than he ever will,
so he wanted it to be perfect.
The children who will be.
He swears that,
while he reclines in his favorite chair
engrossed in fiction,
the fantasy has come to life downstairs
where childish laughter
floats up the basement steps
and hits his eardums,
thumps his heart.
But each time he goes to look —
hoping, willing, grasping
at the elusive apparitions —
he can’t seem to catch a glimpse.
Yet he hears them, aches for them.
He knows in the deepest parts of him
that they’re just a room away.
He can almost feel their hands in his.
They’re the only ghosts worth holding.


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