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After 36,000 hours, you've begun to understand that some of the people who left you aren't coming back. So you walk around the lake where dozens of wrecked planes sit on the water's floor. Some of those wrecks are ghosts. But some aren't because ghosts only serve as ghosts when they're still remembered by the living. Someday, you'll forget those beloved people who've forgotten you. Or maybe you won't.
I’ve wrestled with a ghost of betrayal for 30 years. Over time the ghost has faded but it still hovers in unexpected moments. Your poem is spot on.
Seems there is a lot more to this perhaps ‘preface’ poem. Aside: Never thought about ghosts existing only if thought about by the living.