We've rid ourselves of the monsters sleeping under our beds, but wake up screaming out of reach, something familiar. While we're sleeping, breathing, walls creak. We're there in nightmares, among half-thoughts. In cracked mirrors, there lie fragments of bedtime stories and dog-eared photographs. We're unfamiliar now with this place we used to call home. Faces obscured, foreign.
But I know you. At least, I knew you then.
Beds are cold new, and I'm still convinced that there are ghosts in my closet. I know they're in yours.
The scariest part is in what we didn't say.
All these years passed, are we still the same?
This will haunt me. Will it haunt you too, knowing we're part of this new alienation?