Melissa O. Fuller

September 22, 2017 | 3:10 PM

There was that time he told me
about ghosts and his beliefs
or disbeliefs
I couldn’t tell because he was drunk
if you asked him he wasn’t
but he was and I knew because his eyes were low
lips on forest fire
so I handed him a cup of water and said, “Okay.”


He walked away
upon return, skin glistening
eyes still low, lips running still
coming close enough for me to feel.


He said a place once home
he had questioned, too
he called out, never got an answer
so he never really knew
said sometimes you’d hear that part of the floor creak, even when you didn’t creak it
or the rushing of a figure from the corner of the room, but when you turned, didn’t see it.


He talked and talked
until words became slow
sound became low
just breathing.


I don’t see him anymore
there one moment, gone too quick.
“Was he ever even there?”
I resolve, I rethink.