These ghosts belong to me.
All the pain and the pleasure.
No one else hears them
sees them
feels them
as I do.
Pallid or
invisible and soundless
to others.
The colour of their eyes
rough/kind/happy/sad voices
time-wrung out
even for me.
But they are mine.
My fingertips still know
skin and hair and freckle.
Faulty memory holds weakened anger
unanswered questions
unresolved arguments
the echo of tears.
The lines on my face
remember the moments of joy
corners of mouths upturned
eyes mirth filled.
Tongue remembers the taste of
sharp delight.
These ghosts are mine.
Mine to listen to
or not.
To hold close or push away.
When I too am
pale and voiceless
a ghost in another mind
will they still be there?
Robyn McIntyre - a writing life 