And so, all that is left is a whisper,
a shadow,
an imprint of you.
Fleeting, yet vivid
as scars left over
from battle.

You may no longer shape
my mind,
my thoughts,
my heart...
but you are still here.

though escape may be found
in the summer air,
pressing down on my blushing
cheeks,
there is no escape at night.
You come in sudden
waves of passion, the ghost
of a memory pressing
down on my skin, feverish
and trembling, urgent in
it's hunger.

It's hunger for you.

And I wonder,
is it the same for you?
Do I still hold a place,
a part,
a piece of your flesh,
of my own?
I wonder,
and I hope that I do.

I hope that sometimes
the ghost of me
haunts you.
Not in vengeance,
there was never a need for that,
but in heat.
That at times your memory touches you,
in your vulnerability,
and so,
I do too.