She says the ghost of you is insanity,
that your soul is welcome breath
upon my loneliness,
a manifestation derived from
a mysterious noise
or a distant calling of my name.

The breeze makes me cold
sitting here on the porch where we last met.
I feel like my soul is lost,
whispering words into the darkness,
thinking you can hear me.

There's a streetlight on the corner
that shines dimly upon falling snow,
disguising it like piles of diamonds,
or fragile tears made of glass;
shed only upon release of knowledge
too full of truth to be denied.

Passing cars are seldom,
people clutch their coats around them
tighter,
walking through the alleyways.
Reminds me of the way we hide
ourselves within ourselves
clutching, grasping
holding on,
folding our feelings around us like coats.

And my only consolation
is the sharp intake of oxygen and nicotine
merged into one
to live and to die all in a single breath.

This lingering ritual of watching
nights pass,
like a shuffling of cards front to back,
blows away the memories
in dusty swirls of smoke,
leaving the entirety of your essence
instilled in one moment.

She says the ghost of you is insanity,
that your soul is welcome breath
upon my loneliness,
a manifestation derived from
a mysterious noise,
or a distant calling of my name.