ghosts

the ghosts
of loves past
rattle their chains
in the attic.
I can hear
the floor boards creak.
the sighs,
the groans,
the pages of time
being ripped,
boxes full of yesterdays
being thrown.
I can hear
the wind seer through
the creases
of old windows
bent frames,
tiles broken free
from nails and wood.
we too are ghosts,
alive
and here,
but unseen.