Ghosts

My ghosts are highlighted punk pink, yikes yellow, and billowy blue for rapid categorization. Miraculous myriad of ghosts follow me daily, even to the Realism market by the river to purchase my intravenous memories. The Dewey Decimal system was my first and most honest friend, and even he can’t contain the multitude of subjects hidden in the dimension I lick like a keypad to open my front door when I stumble home from the market, my name eviscerated by pain. Sobbing, one ghost asks to fog a glass one last time with her breath. I hold up my frightened mirror, loan the yellow ghost my warmth, and feel a lightbeam length of life force leave me like a lacy lexicon.