Melancholy

Once, I haunted dreams.
I walked through people’s imaginations
and sat at kitchen tables
and at bus stops
and in the lonely places where they thought
there is no one there but them.

They would tell me once awake.
How I sat, cryptid and menacing
and held their hand
and held their space
and gave them what they needed
to move on from what was holding them back.

Now, I haunt only myself.
There are no places in this world for me
where I would be expected
where I would have influence
where I had any legacy
for someone else to reflect on and say that was me.

My ghost is a black feather on the path at your feet.
A fading memory of something once remarkable.
Unique and ubiquitous.
Common and surprising.
Debris and delightful.
An omen only for those that are looking for one.

(An answer to Tumblr:cryptonature‘s writing prompt for November 8, 2026.)