Who are the ghosts that follow me, who’s souls do not leave when their bodies are beckoned? He was sitting right here. I wish he had snagged himself on my chair, a piece of his soul perhaps, a bead of blood left to linger. Like so many others he flickered like the lamp light, shrouded in woolly garments as he turned towards the door. How is it he was here? His warm lungs broke gales of steam into the autumn air.
I begged to God to freeze the clock, to click the camera lens. But he didn’t smile for the picture, with sunken eyes he turned away. Yet a sliver so small he rasped me and the pain ached through my fingertip. He was here! He was here! And his soul did not drag behind him. Yet in the walls he lingers, not the boy but 'He'. The phantom of my dreams that keeps the screams petrified in the wood framing. Entangled in his mass the boy was never here, but 'He', 'He' has never left me.