there is a ghost who sleeps outside my room

who stretches out on the piano bench end to end
fingers cold and palms dry and caked with mud
hair dripping thick black ink on precious wood
i think he drowned

he rises every time i sound a melancholy chord
or pour tea
or wash my sheets in steaming hot water

i dream of broken glass and robin's egg walls
whenever he is near
i taste grey dirt
and a thousand spirits fill my lungs

and it is good to sleep
and it is good to laugh
but i cannot sleep when he is around
and when i laugh i realize
he would not find it funny

there is a ghost behind my curtains
who looks at me from around the corner
and smiles and smiles and smiles
but i can't smile back

i can't say anything
because every time i look at my ghost
he reminds me of you