There’s a shadow in the edge of vision
A movement out the corner of my sight
A fleeting shape of misty darkness
Could be a hair floating silhouetted against the light.
Is it a flickering eyelash caught on a bit of sleep?
Or a smudge on my low-set bifocal lens?
My bangs overhanging my tired and ageing eyes,
Or a trick of my overactive imagination?
Appearing and vanishing, avoiding direct looks,
I wait to feel a change in the temperature,
To sense a chill hand on my bared skin,
Expecting a feeling of dread, or a whispered word–
But with each glimpse of Someone I feel instead:
Nothing to fear from the ghost in my house,
This entity sharing our home.
I suspect the spirit simply wishes to be noticed,
So it, too, will feel less alone.