Ghost Writer

“Leave it untouched, I’ll be back.”
His words, carried on his last breath,
echoed in his wife’s mind
as she passed where he’d spent his time.
She looks in, a feeling, a tingling in the air.
For a moment, she thought he was there.
In his office, untouched as he wished,
his tools for his craft, nigh, his life,
sit and mourn his death, he will be missed.
His absence is felt as keenly as his presence.
The mahogany desk, rich, ancient, worn,
is covered not only in stain
but dried tears, signaling both his joys and pains.
Plush leather, the chair holds remembered warmth;
from the caress, the embrace, it shared
with the man for cared.
Atop the desk, not yet gathering dust,
his typewriter, more ancient than he.
Yet it remained, whereas he was gone,
a crime, a tragedy so wrong.
Still it held in its memory,
the final keystrokes, teasing foreplay;
a story he’d saved for a later day.
Hugged closely its grasp
a fresh piece of parchment.
Young, eager, willing,
with no memories of the past.
His wife turns away, closes the door.
Click, the lock, maybe more?.
Click, the keys springs to life.
On the paper, ink dances.
Six words appear unbidden, unclaimed, unseen.
“Leave it untouched, I’ll be back.”


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