Haunted Houses

The quiet contradiction of rain. As it falls silently against open windows. She chews on her words. Corn syruped sandpaper. In the dark it's never too late. There's no reason to sleep. She just keeps trying. To swallow those stones.

A rush of guilty pleasure. As she bites down on the boulder. That's gone too soon. The wet kiss of the wind. As the storm picks up in potency. Pulling on the curtains. Sucking the fabric into the million tiny holes in the screen that separates stranger and fiction.

Flattened clothes on the floor. Heavy with the whispers of when. Skin and bones were still dense enough. To give shape to all those ghosts.