NOTHING LEFT EXCEPT YESTERDAY’S GHOSTS

NOTHING LEFT EXCEPT YESTERDAY’S GHOSTS

The house still knows your footsteps,
the floorboards speak at night,
your shadow passes through the hall
then disappears from sight.

Your chair remains beside the fire,
your slippers underneath,
I sometimes hear you call my name
when winter shakes the trees.

Our daughter took the photographs,
but left your favourite one—
two foolish lovers in the rain,
still laughing at the sun.

I touch your face behind the glass
and whisper, “Where did you go?”
but photographs keep secrets
the living never know.

Nothing left except yesterday’s ghosts,
they gather by my bed,
wearing all our happy years
and repeating what we said.

One ghost carries our first kiss,
one holds our baby tight,
another dances barefoot
in the middle of the night.

They are not here to frighten me
or drag me through the past,
they only sit beside me
when the lonely hours last.

The rain still taps against the glass,
the same familiar sound,
and for a moment you are here,
your arms wrapped right around.

Nothing left except yesterday’s ghosts,
yet they keep my heart alive,
for love does not become a grave
just because one heart survives.

And when my final evening comes,
when I have breathed my last,
I’ll walk among those waiting ghosts
and step back through the past.

Then somewhere in the pouring rain,
beneath a trembling sky,
two naked souls will laugh again—
and never say goodbye.