The Ghost of Love

The Ghost of Love

There’s a language here I think I know,

in silent words, where glances go.

You linger near, or so it seems,

a breath of warmth in shadowed dreams.

I trace your voice through crowded rooms,

and hope it wraps in soft perfumes - 

some hidden signal, small but true,

a secret spark that points to you.

But every sign is laced with doubt;

I watch too close, then fear I’ve found

a meaning woven from my ache,

a story real but all half-made.

What if this pull, so fierce, so tight,

is nothing more than stolen light?

A trick of longing, clever, sly,

a ghost of love that won’t reply.

Yet still I fall, despite the gray,

a fragile hope, in bloom or fray.

I read each word you leave behind,

and find a hundred ways they’re kind.

So here I am, on hopeful shores,

awaiting proof, and wanting more.

Unsure if what I see is true,

but tethered close - all wrapped in you.