Breathing Ghosts

I see your faces at school, but they don’t belong to you.
You all haunt me, living, breathing ghosts of mine.
It’s odd and painful and different to see you, my sixth grade classmate, as a stranger who I will never see again after that one glimpse in seventh grade.
And you, my close friend, you who sits a desk away from me, you whom I must treat as only a classmate.
Why must they wear your faces?
Their names don’t match your faces.
Gone are the Hungarian-French and German first names. Here exist American names.
I don’t want to lose what I have already lost.
I ache for what lies in front of me.
(Please come back to me. Please.)

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