It's Still Life

23 of 27 – Wraithborne: A glance mistaken for something else

The Liturgy for Wraithborne

I. The Glance
Not a ghost — just time’s stutter,
a flicker where the light bends wrong
and suddenly, you’re staring
at a face you almost loved
in a life you almost lived.
Wraithborne grins.
You blink.
The crow swallows the evidence.

II. Its Colour
Ash-lit violet is the hue of:
a bruise on a forgotten vow,
the air before a storm changes its mind,
the vein that surfaces when you clutch
too tightly to what’s already gone.

III. The Uninvited
Memory curls at your table —
not as guest, but as owner,
memory sipping your tea,
your hands folding into shapes
you used to pray in.
“You left the door ajar,” it murmurs,
“so I just came in with the draft.”

IV. The Weightless Need
Try to leave.
Go ahead.
The hallway stretches.
The doorknob cools.
Your name
itches between your shoulders —
not yours, and not not yours,
just waiting to be worn right.

V. The Stitch
Wraithborne sews itself to your shadow
with thread pulled from:
the letter you didn’t send,
the kiss that didn’t land,
the last step you almost took,
the last sight before sight left.

VI. The Purpose
It doesn’t want your fear.
It wants your inattention:
the way you pause at mirrors,
the way you hum that song,
the way you almost turn
when no one calls.

VII. Its Unfinishing
Let it linger.
Let it blur.
Let it wear your name
until you remember
who you are.
Some debts aren’t curses —
they’re caretaking
your future.