Ghosts are made of memories.
A material that has no essence but a sense of mystery.
It is behind a stigmatized curtain, full of holes
But still hanging there,
Teased by the wind
On relaxed days
And silenced by the sun,
When the light is revealing
The need to touch the curtain
Is always present
Encouraged by pillows
Paused by short and unexpected sub noises
within the whiteness of the wall.
Temporary microscopic marks
And you locate something special
Something new that the past has to offer.
The mind becomes an antenna,
And the curtain is touched
by a constellation of memories.