I See Dead People

12th & girard smells like a graveyard nowadays.

But even so, I still wonder what would it be like
if the pavement wasn’t made of skeleton bones.
If the air didn’t taste of blood and childhood memories,
would it still be my home away from home?
Would I still want to be an artist if I didn’t see their chalk outlines?

I swear,
if an apartment complex could have a heart beat—
they were that. They were the sitcom in an episode of laughter.

…Now they’re nothing more than…

Some nights, if I close my eyes tight enough,
I can see myself as a boy standing against a balcony railing.
High enough in the air to spin the sun on my finger
and play Tic-Tac-Toe in the craters of a Full Moon.
With eyes like an assassin staring down at my
grandmother and sister sitting on a weathered
park bench that chips away cleanly like hope does from life.

They both look like they haven’t aged a day.
My sister’s wrapping her hair into a ponytail
and my grandmother smiles at a two pigeons
fighting over a piece of bread. Shortly after,
they get up and walks towards the gates exit
like its a entrance into heaven.
And maybe it is.

They always stop and whisper something
to each other; then laugh hysterically.
I try my hardest to hear them or even say something, but
their voices are too low and my tongue feels like it weighs a ton.
Eventually they leave and I wait around patiently for days.
The same way a boy does when his mother promises
him ice cream if he’s quiet in the doctor’s office.
But they never come back.
And the truth is, they never will.