Ghost baby,
just when I was just starting to believe
everything is alright, you haunt me.
I never felt your kick
or the stretch of your arm.
I never held you at 3 am
while the rest of the world slept.
Robbed by toxic infiltration,
insect killing dust that I breathed in
deeply while napping in the summer heat.
Or by some recessive gene yet undiscovered,
silent and waiting through generations.
But I told you I loved you
in the quiet way a new mother blushes,
in the reaches of my heart,
in the downward glances
when asked “how are you feeling?”
Ghost baby, no additional text.