My shirt is loose and isn’t mine.
I lie on tile, head at ground, eyes above me, looking nowhere
and I am set wide from myself,
legs broken into proportions that display my figure as masculine.
The words were written there between us in soft gestures and knowing eyes;
Eyes, that didn’t know well enough.
Your face is ghost to mind; present behind my hands and my words, always.
Unless I stand near to the real you, where my smile is the ghost with laughter and motions that don’t reflect longing.