16.11.2025

The tissue-thin, dried-out, brown, crumpled leaves, still sit–undisturbed, in the grey, stone pot that you left behind, when you moved out.  

It's the only thing that, when I moved in, I left in its place, on the floor, by the window. 

Unlike the box of your old cookware, that I had to haul to the orange street bin, or the long, folding, banquet table, I carried under my arm, all the way to the Wizo thrift shop. 

These things all had stories that took up too much space, and you left them behind, for me to deal with.

But the heavy, grey, volcanic stone pot, was already a ghost; I just think you forgot.

Trust me when I say this: in my fifty-six years, I've moved more times than I can count, and as unromantic as it may sound, we're always leaving our ghosts behind:

     An old plant in a corner 

       we'd forgotten to water

     A snow globe given by an   

       office friend

     A shoebox of some 

       deceased relative's

       clippings 

All just ghosts from a life, 

Ephemeral things.