and so what have i to offer you beyond
a collection of cheap and naive sentiments
matted in the dust of ineloquence?
i miss you, is all, but not even you:
an image of you, but not even an image:

the ghost of a fantasy. yes, i am
haunted, haunted by your absence
your senseless existence your
orbit without mass or distance
and all the rest, in its restless fabrication.

all that remains are your artefacts
with i among them, not quite intact.