Ghosted

Glass bottles decorate
dingy tiles
like periods inked
in lonely books
where pages haunt
the hollow voids
between love
and life and death.

The mirror taunts,
restless reflections
reminiscing
as tempted fingers
trace contours
of another place in time.

Those windows there,
where lilacs wrote
their fuchsia memoirs
on ageless photographs,
entrusted to savor
the dusty flavors
of a long forgotton home.

Digesting saucepans
of scorched regret,
now aimless smoke,
left lingering,
somewhere between
the corpse of hope
and the blood of acceptance.