Chill Out

You said you’d haunt the places that you knew.

I guess a lot of people feel that way.

When shapeless, all the more so. But this house

Is so imbued with you-ness in its walls

(That pale vanilla paper that you chose,

Those drapes that hang like frosted falls of mocha),

And in its drifts of dust your sugary whims,

Your shade would be dispersed, reduced, confused

With memories, nostalgia. So you’ve gone

To somewhere more anonymous, yet safe.

And I will find you (knowing that a wraith

Will always come to rest in someplace cool)

Serene and sweet, a vapour by the freezers,

A subtle joke on cryopreservation,

Enticing every passing shopper’s children

With raspberry ripple ice cream flavoured ghost-flesh.

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Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, such as Spectral Realms, Altered Reality, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal and others.