“Who comes home,
At one A.M. on a Friday night?
Aren’t you older than that?”

Who even thinks,
Of ghost lips on a ghost body?
On a ghost beach in a ghost city.

The lines on my palm flow like currents,
They break apart like the tide.
So is this the separation point?
Is this where my life splits off?
Is this my great choice?

Oh but sunshine,
I just want your vanilla kisses.
There is no choice,
Just an angel’s embrace.
And if only you were here,
To make it all alright.
I just want your hands pressed against my chest.

If I shut my eyes,
I am in a tunnel,
My head pressed against the window,
The lights dancing through my eyelids.
If I shut my eyes,
I am transitory.

If I shut my eyes.
I am not here.

But the current has been broken,
And I am forever left on this end of the tide.
Stranded in the cold of winter.