You know what Halloween is about? The sexy costumes, parties, candy, trick or treat? That’s nothing. It came from darkness. The darkness where you see things. The darkness you cannot drive away, because it’s in you. 

It’s the night of ghosts. People think ghosts are something that haunts a place. Oh dear no. Does a spirit rage at the water that took her breath? At the cold rock he lay on, bleeding? 

Or at the person, the hand that held the knife, that pushed, that betrayed? Or the heart that loved? That misses – that calls.

The lanterns? The bonfires? It’s the last descendant of Samhain, the night of darkness. Where light fails, where we burn to keep away the ghosts of our past. If we want to. And if not? 

Well. That’s something else.

Her Ghost.

Would her ghost rest, if only I recall?
I’d not forget the taste of her mem’ry;
In truth a hint, a presence touches all,
From which I would not wish I could be free.

To rest upon her breast was to be calm.
The memory, a shade of what once was.
Though absence pains, the thought of her is warm,
The paradox of holding tight to loss.

And on that night, I wait for her to come.
I douse the lights, the better I might see,
An ache that will not heal nor will be done,
In truth I wish she would depart: with me.

But for that night: my life is but a lie,
So tell – is she the ghost, or is it I?

Erato (The Poet)
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