Haunt; or the Persistence of Memories
Some absences never leave. What lingers—of houses gone, of rooms vacated, and of shelves cracked—the marks fade. Yet the dust never quite settles.
Wasn’t there a bookmark here? A pause to return to? A breath to reclaim? A moment to relapse? It seems to have faded into memory torn over melted awnings, and poured over the drains of a once sun-baked villa. The only feeling I can recall on its textured smoothness: a stain left from a teacup chipped, yet sweet abrim. Sticky though it always was, I could stick it anywhere in ever-yellowing pages of the escapes I left behind. Wasn’t there a bookmark here? A chance to return to? A life to relive? A portal to reopen? It seems to have smothered in those yellowing pages old, now rust, ashes, and dust of a once proud shelf. There was another sensation: obverse its opal coral plains and you’d see a faint calamity that rained in showers of red. Thick though it used to be, that blood has since thinned washed away in rains of the dreams I left behind. Wasn’t there a bookmark here? A thought to return to? A dream to redream? A wish to fulfil? It seems to have been forgotten flushed away under sinks, crushed under the bricks of a once weathered grave. There is only a faint wisp of the words that had cut and a slap that did hurt; ghosts of old memories. Wasn’t there a bookmark here? I can’t remember anymore, but these pages afresh and pristine with blue ink have filled the gouges, old.




Good work