A breath in the night sky,
Cool and quivering like a lover’s sigh,
Once every few moons,
Our spirits kiss,
Tender and warm, a fleeting bliss.
Covering our souls
Like rain; with love,
Soft droplets caressing from above.
We remember past words,
Whispers under our skin,
A tactile memory, thin and worn,
And oak trees in the storm,
Their rough bark groaning, forlorn.
Fast fingers and slow minds,
Drunk with passion and wine,
The tang of berries on our tongues,
Sweet and heady, as we clung.
Let us float on dreams,
On the scent of night-blooming jasmine streams,
Until we reach our destination,
As ghosts in our home,
In the silence, our love’s quiet exclamation.
Now, with every twilight’s embrace,
We dance to the silent songs of the cosmos,
The air vibrating with our unspoken hymns,
Entwined in the waltz of the forgotten,
Our laughter, a symphony of spectral whims.
In the quietude of the dark,
When shadows play on the walls,
Our love rekindles the flame,
A gentle glow, the softest balm in the hearth of eternity.
Through the window of the soul,
Glimpses of eternity flicker,
As we trace the constellations,
Our fates written in stardust and moonbeams,
A visual feast for the heart’s contemplations.
So let the night envelop us,
A cloak woven from the threads of yesteryears,
For in the heart of our abode,
We live on, timeless and serene,
As ghosts in our home, forever unseen.
Beneath the silvered veil of the moon,
Our silhouettes merge, an ancient rune,
Cast upon the walls, a shadow play,
Telling tales of love, in an ephemeral ballet.
The stars, our audience, twinkle with delight,
As we spin stories in the fabric of the night,
Each movement a brushstroke in the sky’s vast canvas,
Our love, the palette from which all hues amass.
In the garden, where the wild roses grow,
Their petals spread like blush on snow,
The night air carries their sweet perfume,
Intertwining with our essence, in the gloom.
And there, by the willow’s weeping grace,
Our fingers touch, a delicate lace,
The fireflies dance, a luminous spree,
Witness to our love’s quiet symphony.
With every dawn, our forms may fade,
But in the twilight, our colors cascade,
For in this place we call our own,
We paint our love, in tones unknown,
As ghosts in our home, forever shown.
As seasons cycle, from spring to winter’s chill,
Time’s relentless march, against our still,
Yet within these walls, our moments defy,
The ticking clock, as centuries fly by.
The laughter of children, once filled the air,
Now whispers of joy, linger in despair,
The echoes of footsteps, a rhythmic beat,
Now silent, in time’s unyielding defeat.
But here we stand, amidst the flow,
Of hours and days, we used to know,
Our love, a constant, through the sands,
Of time, held firmly in our hands.
For though the world outside may age,
Our story’s written on an endless page,
In this house, where memories roam,
We are eternal, as ghosts in our home.
And yet, the heart does yearn,
For the touch that will never return,
The voice that whispers no more,
In the quiet night, it’s what we adore.
The longing, a river deep and wide,
Flows through the chambers where we hide,
A yearning for the past, so sweet,
Where love and loss, in silence meet.
In every corner, a memory waits,
A longing for the opening of the gates,
To the days when laughter was shared,
In this home, where we dared.
To love, to live, to hold on tight,
In the face of time’s relentless flight,
Our longing, a testament to what was,
In this home, where we pause.
To feel, to remember, to embrace,
The love that time cannot erase,
For as long as this house shall stand,
Our longing, hand in hand,
With the ghosts of our home, forever grand.
The scent of old letters, yellowed and frail,
Carries the ink of our tale,
A fragrance of time, sweet and sour,
In our hands, it blooms, a delicate flower.
The sound of a distant melody,
Plays softly, a forgotten rhapsody,
A tune that stirs the soul, deep and profound,
In its notes, our longing is found.
The sight of an empty chair, by the hearth,
Speaks volumes of absence, a silent mirth,
Its fabric worn, by years of wait,
Holding the shape of our shared fate.
The taste of tears, salt on the lip,
A reminder of love’s final trip,
Bitter and true, they fall like rain,
In their path, our longing remains.
The touch of a breeze, through an open pane,
Whispers of presence, amidst the pain,
A caress from the past, gentle and slight,
In its wake, our longing takes flight.
For in this home, where echoes resound,
Our spirits linger, forever bound,
In every sense, our longing thrives,
As ghosts in our home, through countless lives.
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poetry – 819 words – reading time: 4 minutes
reflections of an unquiet mind 