[Soulstice]

The town I grew up in is pretty in winter. My father's hair is visibly thinner
but Mom still makes lemon chicken for dinner, although her foot is hurt. Down
town is still completely empty. My school's field is turf now, green as ever.
There's still phantoms at the edge of my mind. Let them stay for a bit,
I guess forever is fine. There's her radiant skin, the words that died on my lips
They were smooth and articulate. No survivors exist.
Theres old friends who littered the halls. Pot and liquor eclipsing it all.
I consider this, drawn and quartered at my childhood bedside.
Next- I'm hailing a cab. I'm riding a red eye
Poring over fragile phrases, prepping a ghost for a kill.
Knowing this won't work, but hoping it will.