ghosts of us

If everything stops,
and words fall from our minds,
like leaves from autumn branches,
would this be the end of us?

Where would we have lost
the ghosts of who we were?
In the quiet spaces between breaths,
in the silences we left unsaid?

Would we find them scattered,
like echoes that never reached the shore,
or caught in the wind,
like whispered truths we chose to ignore?

If all that’s left are shadows,
fading from our skin,
where do we go from here?
Do the ghosts of us simply disappear?