Ghosts in the Midday

A Poem by L. Aericko

Smallish poem that came to me in a weird bout of motivation and irritation.

I walk around my one bedroom apartment, tucked away on the 10th floor at the very back of the building, and I see the curtains move.
They move in that way someone standing at the window would move them while looking out upon the pot hole riddled street leading out of town.
I check the curtains only to hear a chair at the tiny table pull out and make the same wooden creaking of someone sitting down to do bill's or work on a project, a very tiny project.
I leave and find the couch is an inch from the wall but the scuff marks are already there.
The coffee table is an organized mess with an ashtray near the edge, a nasty habit but these days I can't seem to stop.
Continuing to the mirror in the short hallway, hung straight for the first time in what seems like ages, we never could get it just right.
The cabinet in the bathroom is still slightly ajar. Who knew magnets could wear out after being smashed together so many times?
So close now, the closet in the bedroom hasn't been opened in weeks, too many memories accompany the clothes. Memories that are so happy they're blindingly painful.
Finally the bed that still has the impression of your body next to mine at night. Almost like somehow you are still here.
You are haunting our apartment. Your spirit lingers on the fire escape at midnight. It sings in the morning when your making coffee and laughs at my failed attempts of cooking.
It's scary. How much I think you're still here.
I miss you.