the chill of a metal bench soaks into my skin,
fibers of denim unconcealing
can you see my bones?
hoarse and quiet and barely there,
your voice is a ghost
the residue of something that once lived and is no longer
there.

high fives, fist bumps, live long and prosper:
thin hands that have seen it all
all except the warmth of yours
of a link that i never expected
to feel, or to feel so
empty

knees, rough and bruised from kneeling
from sitting in uncomfortable positions
from leaning over in the emptiness of a house haunted
by someone's ghost,
though if it's hers or yours or mine
no one can say.

the firsts are the only ones we count:
lips that linger,
brushing dust and stellar remains
on the lifeless collar of this lifeless boy.