Ghosts.
Ghosts everywhere.
They hover on the autumn air,
surrounding me,
phantoms of my own
imagination.
That’s been happening a lot,
actually.
You’re not the woman you
promised me you’d be.
If I’m Autumn,
then you are Spring:
hope eternal, and allergies.
Promises to come, but nothing
substantial;
fade into Summer, a land of
broken glass
ground into pearls and beach sand,
and seasonal flings.
Promises for the future, but
nothing you intend to keep.
Ghosts.
All fleeting.
Fleeting means nothing to me.
You’re not the woman you promised
to be.

Copyright © 2017 C.L. Mannarino All rights reserved.