She goes to places
where he had been,
touches things that
he had touched, what

some call laying ghosts,
she calls reliving the
past, trying to bring him
back again. That Italian

restaurant he liked, that
table he preferred, that
menu he stared at and
studied, she visits and

gets the same table and
stares at the menu which
he had held and gazed.  
The bench in the park

where they had sat and
talked and laughed and
first held hands and kissed.
Deep down it was him

she missed. The bridge
where they would stop
half way and look into
the river over the side,

she stands, looking, here
where some have jumped
to their deaths in dark
moods or their own black

moment's hold. Then there
is the bed where he had lain,
the love made, the nightly
holds and snuggles and ****

whispers and tickle's giggles.
The bed is empty now; his
place vacant like some deserted
lot, cold where once was hot,

ghostly ways, where she feels,
he lies as in their former days.