Unnumbered

i can see them, the ghosts in the trees
hungering, drooling, stinking of blood and sweat
knowing i will approach.
waving in the wind, holding nostalgia hostage.

the ghosting errors that bring memories to
the front in fragments that do not fit together,
forced together with glue.
the good old days, regardless of how good they are,
viewed through rosy goggles ad imagined to be perfect.

the ghosts sit
and wait for me to near them
they wait for me to hear them
they wait for me to fear them.

it happens so fast i can't see that their hooks are already in me,
pulling at my brain, reheating my memories, draining me dry