I pick up a brush or place hands on the keys; the ghosts come out to share.
They’re bored, they’re lonely, with stories to tell.
They fib, omit, exaggerate.
They dream, they yearn, imaginate.
My hands are possessed. Others say I make art.
My beloved ghosts and I know better.
We married for the kids. They left; I will soon.
Originally published by Dime Show Review (Ten Word Stories), November 14, 2017.