by Linda M. Crate when best friends transition to ghosts, this aching heart feels as if it will ache forever; i wish i could let her go but she was my childhood— i still see the auburn and gold of her hair in the summer sun when i look at the childhood in my past, how am i supposed to simply forget her as she has me? i hate living ghosts, at least you know where to visit the dead. * * * Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links:
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