It's Like That Ghost We Were Talking About Poem by Barry Wyckoff

I almost forget
what we were talking about…
it's like that ghost
we were talking about now.

She comes with no footsteps,
just air shifting quietly
in the corners of your thoughts.

Not peace.
Not pain.
Something in-between —
a presence that won't stay,
a silence that won't leave.

You don't chase her.
You just feel the air grow still.
The sky turns gray
and the trees lean slightly inward
like they know she's near.

She never says your name.
She never looks at you.
But you know —
somehow —
she came for you.

She wraps around your ribs
and leaves no warmth,
just the weight of having been seen
for a second too long.

You don't speak.
You don't need to.
Because she's not asking anything
but your existence.

And when she leaves —
(she always leaves) —
you don't beg her to stay.

You just sit,
alone
and loved
in the way that never asks to be understood.