some heckin' words

in the other way.

Not "but", not "just",

not "only"--it's love;

how could it ever be "only"?

I love you, I love you, I love you

in this way .

(In one way among a wealth,

and thank God. Wouldn't it be lonely

with pretty stones and ugly worries,

and fit too many, which only hurries

the tearing seams that pull and pull, and--

Forgive me if I keep my own,

the sandstone and the family woes.

One more, and you'll split, and who knows

The town you’ve lived in for years looks like a softer version of itself. You feel like a softer version of yourself–and a wetter one, too, but that’s what you get for a walk in this weather.

The road, slick and leaf-covered, could be a dark river. The trees are dark and tall and damp, and line the hills over the town like combed-back hair.

The person beside you looks like stranger, glasses fogged over and hood up. Someone down and across the street could be familiar, could become familiar.

They do become familiar. You turn the corner onto the next block, and there’s another person, down, across. The same person? They wear the same raincoat, light-colored under the street lamps. You pass, along your opposite paths on the narrow road. You do not turn to look at them. They do not turn to look at you, as far as you know.

You stumble in an unexpected puddle, splashing your companion. You glancce over, opening your mouth to apologize and make some joke. They are not familiar. You close your mouth. You do not look away. They do not notice.

When did you meet them? When did you start walking together?

When did you start walking?

The rain has soaked through your jacket, almost; it drips off your cuffs and trickles into your crocheted mitts. It is wet. It is cold. It is dark.

You look away from the stranger beside you. There is some down the street and not across from you. They are wearing a light-colored rain coat.

It takes a moment for your stiffened legs to their steady course, to turn you and speed you up. You do not look over your shoulder to see how the stranger you thought you knew or the person who is familiar react. You run. You slide between buildings and turn sharp, and turn again. The ground is slippery. You almost lose your footing but do not. The ground looks like it would be soft, like it would not hurt to fall.

You do not want to fall.

The buildings look like brick. The houses look warm and cozy. The lights look like they are safe. This looks like the town you’ve explored until there was nothing to explore anymore. There are shadowed street signs where there should not be, and no signs where they should be one.

You know the way yourself, and all you know is you have to get home.

A car several intersections down moves the way a car should not. You turn down the alley that should lead beside your apartment building. There is a person in a moterized chair sitting at the exit out to your street. They are not a person in a moterized cart.

You turn to run up the slope to your home. You slip.

The town is soft, soft, softer than you know. The edges are not the same. They aren’t the way they should be. It’s soft, soft, soft, soft, soft.

but give it time, give it time

to fill with ghosts like regrets

like cries like spilled blood.

My body is haunted enough, meanwhile.

Shadows in the eaves,

marks and scratches on the walls,

and creaks and groans

and restless nights.

I've been a dozen people before noon,

and their corpses litter my floor

I don't dare to look them head on--

in flashes of hair, chin, shoulders,

and I wish, I wish I could get them gone.

Call it a ritual, an attempt to expel

with dye, a ducked face, a hunched shape.

Do you think if I hung a sheet on the mirror,

when the wind chills like thoughts that won't rest,

when the pumpkins glow like the sun in the west,

when the shadows creep into the street,

when the garden is full of skeleton feet,

when curtains hang like a ghostly sheet,

When something crawls through your hair

when the cat hisses at nothing there,

when claws reach from under the stair,

when you're home with doors shut against the dead,

when the moon gleams like fangs instead,

when the covers are pulled up over your head--

The thing of it is: becoming a ghost is never as difficult as one would expect. No literal dying need be involved.

A little aimless wandering goes a long, long way. The trick is always moving, but never going; never pause, never leave, just gently sway.

If you shroud your feet in socks, you’ll find they glide across the floors smoother, softer. The thicker your socks, the better.

This only applies for hardwood and linoleum. If you must cross carpeting, the best you can hope for is muffled shuffling.

Broken wails are a must, of course. You’ll find bathroom tiles on shower walls reverberate them with the needed effect, a blend of echoes and muffled melancholy.

Those books should be moved, and reorganized, and put over here. No, they go there. Well, that’s adequate. But now, the coats need moved, and the pictures shifted that way, and that shelf should be across the room. And then, the books can’t stay there.

Keep rearranging until you’re satisfied.

You won’t be satisfied.

There’s a knock at the door. There’s a call on the phone. Don’t answer either.

If conversation cannot be avoided, use only vague remarks. Examples: Yes, doing well. Oh, busy as ever. How about that game last night? Huh. Yeah. Oh, really?

Slowly transition into faint smiles and nods.

Eventually, real inquiries will have died.

It won’t be long after that. Soon, the whispers will start—and they’ll quiet when they feel you near.

It’s best not to leave the house. They’re watching and whispering, and whispering, and whispering, and watching.

You’ll creep into the folklore. You’re a story—a scary one—that sends chills and dread along the spine. You’ll be a specter they don’t want near their children; you’ll be a darkness they fear will take their loved ones.

There, (they say) did you see that shadow? Crossing the window in the apartment on the corner? (They point, with little discretion.)