Chills are reminders of unnatural occurrence;
swells of coolness granted by the palms of the unseen–
who knows if you are shaking hands with the devil
or kissing a sympathetic soul left at a metaphoric train stop.
I hate being defined by my manners,
washing my hands when they feel full of something invisible;
letting my mind float into sleep, seeing faces; or summoning the courage
to speak to an empty room.
Raising the dead sounds as difficult as rearing a child,
but as simple as acknowledging the natural elements.
Energy doesn’t just phase out.
It must dissolve into a lesser conscious world.