Now alone in February,
little ghosts roam in your nuclei
as warm honey swelling from down to up
and shaped into circles just as so.

They wear you like a coat –
they make babies on the linen.

When you talk to other red-faced girls,
phantoms spread their legs
and replicate the words
into antennae that thaw your lone chest.

I apologize for having supposedly left,
but see, it is me you’re feeling
when you cannot breathe.