Old Letters

There’s a young ghost
Trapped in the envelopes
Between old letters she wrote
Bound in careless strokes
It scorns

It scorns the pallid walls it’s held within
It’s fragile fettered skin
In innocence it clings
Like a melody carried on a broken string

And when that goddess shakes her golden hair
And warms the winter air
I hear footsteps on the stairs
And it haunts

It haunts me, like a phantom limb
Or an old forgotten hymn
Like ashes flittering
Dying and born up on the wind
Where the woods are smoldering
Her silhouette still lingering
Underneath a violet moon
Licking salt from silent wounds