There lives a ghost inside our house,
and everyone knows his name.
They leave the porch light on for him,
then whisper he’s a game.
They leave a plate beside his chair,
a blanket on the floor,
and when he thanks them through the dark,
they ask what thanks are for.
They mend the windows when he shakes,
they keep the hallway warm,
they tell him that they’re there for him
whenever there’s a storm.
Sometimes, when the kettle sings,
the house grows still and thin.
He waits beside the kitchen door
until the voices end.
The walls remember every word,
though he remembers none.
The house is full of little ghosts,
and he is only one.
He learned to walk without a sound,
to never cross the light.
For ghosts are easier to love
when no one sees them right.