walla.

My town is full of ghosts. 

There are roads I've driven down, different each time.

The fields are never the same

and the ditches widen with every rush of winter water.

Full of shadows of people who were truly kind.

And people who smoked their cigarettes around the corner;

it bled into the bedroom window.

Street blocks frame pictures of dead days.

Mailboxes we graffiti'd.

Rooms we filled with music and kisses and homemade meals.

There were animals who ran away to new families, after the fireworks.

I wonder who else has stood in the doorways of our old place on College Avenue. 

Maybe also who wept there. 

Have they found the things I lost there?

My town is full of ghosts, 

And homes I've built and will never return to. 

But it is still my town.