At night, I go to the ghost fields.
Every stalk of wheat was once a life. Brush them, and they whisper:
“I wish I had…”
“I’m sorry for what I…”
“Forgive…”
Sometimes, I’ll sit on the gate, listen to them whisper their apologies to the wind.
Most people don’t come here, but I find some comfort in that rustle of voices. Shows me I’m not the only one with regrets.
But if the only one listening is the wind, you’re too late.
I take my phone, find his name in the list. Pause. Swallow. Call.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s me.”
—–
This song wasn’t a direct inspiration for this one, but I’ve had it stuck in my head ever since I wrote that first line:
Ghost Fields – Murder By Death
The album, by the way, is awesome.
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