Before I was ghost,
I was real.

Your hands
brought pink to my skin,
coaxed sighs
billowed softly,

heart surge,
pulse and shiver,
rise, fall

and, later, laughter;
chimed rhyme on my ribs.

Now I am resigned to sad places—
dark balconies,
orchards brimming with moon
and lightless bedrooms,

clinging fast to strangers
begging
*make me real
make me real.