Some people are anchors.

They belong to the shore
without ever having to ask
whether the shore belongs to them.

She has always been more like fog.

Present enough to touch everything,
never solid enough
to leave fingerprints.

There are places where she has lingered
so long she knows their shape by memory,
yet she could disappear tomorrow
and nothing would need rearranging.

That is the strange thing about ghosts.

They can love a place
without ever belonging to it.

And she has never mistaken
drifting for freedom.

There is nothing beautiful
about being untethered
when all she has ever wanted
was something strong enough
to keep her from drifting.

Nothing freeing
about having no harbor
when she would have gladly
come ashore.

Some nights,
a ghost grows tired
of passing through everything
she wants to hold.

Tired of watching the world
close gently around other shapes
while leaving no impression
where she stands.

And she wonders
what it must be like
to have gravity.

To be something
the universe notices missing.

Instead, she floats.

Not because she wants to.

Not because she has somewhere else to go.

Simply because nothing
has ever held tightly enough
to make her stay.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.