Your Ghost Borrowed My Shoes

Your ghost borrowed my shoes last night.

I know, because they weren’t where I left them—

not by the door with the muddy laces,

but turned inward,

like they’d come home late

and didn’t want to wake me.

One lace was knotted

the way you used to tie them,

too tight on the left,

a little loop of impatience on the right.

My feet remembered you before my head did.

I walked around the kitchen barefoot,

stepping into echoes—

The chair you always pulled out crooked,

The floorboard that squeaks like it’s telling on us.

Outside, the streetlight made the hallway glow,

And for a second I saw

your stride in the shadow of my own,

longer, lighter,

like you were still ahead of me,

telling me to hurry up.

I should buy new shoes, I guess,

ones that haven’t learned your weight,

that don’t lean toward the door

Every time it rains.

But then who would your ghost borrow from

on nights when the past gets restless

and wants to see how far

We might have walked

If we hadn’t stopped where we did?