Sexy-Evil

No one believes in ghosts I said - no sweet wisps lingering in the breath between dusk and dawn. No fragile thinlings pulling at the doors or making the curtains shimmy with an uncle’s last breath. They do not balk at flowers - lilies and hibiscus clawing the corners, or ungathered  words that spill under doorframes. But sometimes late at night I feel the pinch of air - the scent of ashes dancing in the garden where she once held court and the mirrors going dark.