The day draws inexorably to a close, the light growing dim and soothing.

I lie in quiet repose, eyelids shuttered against the last bit of the outside world.

It’s then, with the first haze of sleep, the ghostly specters arise,

Faces thought to have been erased so many years ago, reappear.

Instantly recognizable, the intervening fifty years vanishing instantly,

Their silent images suggesting wordlessly, they remain frozen in time,

Not a single grey hair or wrinkle intrudes upon the memory of their faces

They stare at me in silence, lips unmoving, voices so long muted

Longing for the briefest touch, to confirm an impossible reality,

Although, I know in my heart that I cannot reach across time and yet I try,

Reaching out a hand reflexively to bridge the void,

I’m startled at the sight. Gazing incredulously at my hands,

Skin, worn and tired stares up at me, scars and wrinkles displayed prominently

Showing very distinctly the passage of each one of those hard years,

Confirming the reality that while I remain firmly anchored in the present,

The ghostly apparitions remain rooted in their own reality, long past.

With so many faces having passed through my life? Why these?

Some have entered and exited in the briefest of moments,

Yet some piece of themselves has remained behind in the depths my mind.

If I could drag them forward in time, draw them within earshot,

What could I tell them, what would I ask of them?

If they see me in return would my face seem even vaguely familiar?

Do I appear to any of them in their own dark nights?