i hide the ghost of who we used to be
underneath my covers. i sleep, my legs
intertwined with its legs, my fingers on its cheek.

it looks like our child would have looked, but
it has no gender, no identity other than the two of us.

innocence and frivolity coat its tongue
and unsaid i love yous are cotton ***** caught in
its throat, not set free, the people we used to be
could never set those three words free
into the air. into each other’s mouths. into the sky.

and as the cold body lies next to mine, i wish
i had a bigger bed and didn’t have to be tangled
with the ghost of who we used to be.