There are ghosts that stir inside of her,
shimmering and wraithlike.

The desperate ways
in which she's mooned
have craned and fused
and become a part of her.
They've since dissolved
and left a hollow
in their place.

And though she knows
they aren't there,
she feels them
crushing, crushing, crushing
all the same.
Without their heavy presence,
she is left
with an idle ache.

Unable to separate herself from the ghosts,
she will indulge in the sickly-sweetness of yesterday.
She will enclave herself in the ghostly, glimmering fog,
breathing sticky recollection
that will cling to her lungs like ash,
and smother her.