The ghosts come
out at night.
They make love
in the pale glow of
the lamp light.
In bed I sit
with knees tucked
under
an expressionless chin
watching.
Stirring up stale embraces
from the dust
that long ago settled
there
on the floor
at the foot of the bed
where you tucked
your socks and shoes.
Where there
in the yellow glow
we made love
and other disasters too.
© Emily E Johnson
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