Ghosts

At the time we all believed

we’d be doing this forever.

Fifty years from now, still running

screaming in the darkness, shining

torches in each other’s eyes.

We lit a fire in the ruins

of an old watchtower, spooked

each other with urban legends

(like Charlie, who hanged himself,

and still swings tethered from the rafters

on the darkest nights

– but not tonight)

and trespassed in the empty church

with the werewolf mural,

and ran, stumbling, terrified

(but always laughing) when the wind

or an angry ghost – we never could agree

on which – slammed the wooden door

with a crash that split the night in two.

Strange to think that somewhere

we lost all that. Strange to think

that somewhere, we’re all hunting ghosts

of our own, reaching clumsily into the dark,

forgetting how it feels to laugh and scream

the way we did together on that night.