ON LEAVING

There is a certain path only ghosts may walk,
Between the present and the memory,
Between our realities and our dreams -
On silvery strings
That pull together hearts until
They dissipate like spiders webs
From lack of stability or solidity:
With every footstep crunching on autumn leaves,
With every sun set without a kiss,
The paths for the ghosts grow weaker and weaker
And we continue through life without a clean break
Until by the end we are in the middle of fragments
Torn from each other gradually;
But such beautiful ghosts they were.