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The Ghost

The door was wide open.

I could hear your fingertips

making innocent prodigious love

to the silent keys.

Wooden floors, high white walls,

sweet kitchen smells and laughter,

stairs that climb like forbidden buttons

never to be undone.

If feet could cross thresholds

of blindness and forgiveness,

my tears would be singing your toes

the saddest love story ever told.

Keeled close against your feet-

four bright eyes never to meet-

your melody might recognise me

as her greatest fan.

Perhaps our harmony

might unveil me tenderly

and out-sing our vulnerability

with her brokenness.

In our home my heart beats,

yet never can I enter;

not to kiss goodbye or close the door

or bury the key.

I have become the ghost

of thirty three Figtree street.

Inside a man composes his dreams.

His unseen shadow weeps.


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