Phantoms II

She feels them.
The man who exists, but not yet for her.
She can hear him
breathing in the scent of dinner
while he reclines in his favorite chair,
engrossed in fiction,
the index finger of his right hand
poised just under the page,
ready to turn it in a moment.
The children who will be.
She swears that,
while she stirs the contents of the pot
and rests her left hand on her hip,
the fantasy has come to life.
From somewhere in the house,
childish laughter floats into the kitchen
and hits her eardrums,
thumps her heart.
But each time she leaves the stove to look —
wishing, dreaming, hoping
to catch the elusive apparitions —
she can’t seem to steal a glimpse.
Yet she knows them, aches for them.
She knows in the deepest parts of her
that they’re just a blink away.
She can almost feel their hands in hers.
They’re the only ghosts worth holding.


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