My aching void in nights alone gets filled in spectral form.
Those gone I've loved and known stop by, hearts stilled, but loving, warm.
It's nothing to seek praise for, and no deed of mine to boast.
It helps my empty days, when I can hold hands with a ghost.
It is a special kindness when you sense one next to you.
Not living, yet still loving, a faint outline comes in view.
You get a smile-shimmer, and a phantom touch at most.
Tears make your vision dimmer when you hold hands with a ghost.
Their words, they speak in silence, passed like notes between close friends.
Your questions would be violence, you won't know 'til your tale ends.
You sense them there, they're happy, and they chide you, since you mourn.
You can't refute them aptly with their loss a burden borne.
They laugh at me still grieving when I know that they're past pain.
I take joy in believing that somehow I still remain
Among their thoughts when they have shed all pain, fatigue and sadness.
It vexes me that I vex the