Thoughts of you make
my mouth pool with blood
from the words that I can not bring myself
to say out loud, scratching
at the flesh inside my throat

You're the type of ghost
whose breath I swore I could feel
on the back of my neck.
The type of ghost,
I look over my shoulder for,
but never quick enough.

Some might call me crazy
for finding warmth in the dead.
They ask what is there to love
in someone who hasn't the arms
solid enough to seize you
when you pull them into an embrace.

They say to be careful of wandering ghosts,
who show up in your room, leave for days,
and then have the audacity to return,
with no explanation, as if it's there home.

They call me naive for thinking that
I am being used for more
than a light source for
someone who's candles have burned low,
and is tired of floating
among the shadows of this road.

But these are the same people who
read Shakespeare at cafes,
drink their coffee black,
tell everyone their major without having been asked.

You see,
I am your Comfort Inn,
placed along the freeway,
for you to stumble into,
intoxicated with whatever
burdens had been served to you that night.
And, and, and,
I am...
the cigarette you light up desperately
to bring to your lips, but just as quickly
press against your thigh
when a stranger strolls by.
And, and, and..
I am the spine.
That you bend. Crack.
To you use the splinters as needles,
to sew yourself back up.
And, and, and...
I happily oblige.
-m.a.e