They speak
when the lights go out-
not loud,
but certain,
like foodsteps on damp earth
you cannot see.

Some are whispers
shaped like a memory,
soft
and aching.

Others pressing in
like fog
through a broken window,
uninvited,
yet familiar.

They don't ask
to be believed.
They just stay-
beneath the hum of the refrigerator,
inside the ticking clock,
in the space
between thoughts.

Not ghosts,
not warnings-
just the things
you never said
sitting beside the things
you never dared to want.

And in the dark,
they are clear
as breath
on cold glass.