Ghost town.

It’s living in a ghost town. Living in a memory. The faces laugh and play, taunting the present places. Leave faded carvings claiming your former spaces. Every stop light reminds you of those teenage faces.
I’m living in a ghost town here. The longer we linger the less we own. The more we reminisce the more we start to miss.
Funny how good memories can cripple time. Strange how good memories can curve your once straight spine.
I’ve clawed my fingers into wisps that softly hum, into the past, into the echoes that beat steady as a drum.
I won’t find them there. The teenagers we used to be. We owned the streets, the ratty jeans, the fickle heart strings.
When you live in a memory town it is filled with ghosts. Their good times become your heart ache and you let them circle close.
I’m leaving this ghost town now; finally discovered how: sell your things, love your memories, book a flight, then you’re free.
I need to make new ghosts for when I’m old. To keep looking back into the stories I made that could be told.


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