My Writing

If, Then

I wander through a mist

that swirls at my

tingling fingers

and plucks

at the ends of my hair

and pinches

the skin of my cheek.

If I could hold

the hand of a memory


could I then

tug back

and earn a ghost’s smile?

Or would the mist

laugh and dissolve,

disappearing into the place

where every lost spark

still flickers?

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash