You have been living as a ghost for too long.
Too long under the flood-lit hoardings,
advertising a necessity
you have never thought of before.
Too long spent pushing someone away
rather than letting go.
I thought of you in bed last night,
your pale complexion
and the way you smoke cigarettes;
an ache of habit
disguised as a fashion statement,
spinning into a pirouette
after tripping over the step.
You chose a career of kindness,
siphoning knowledge to a new generation
at the expense of your punk-rock credentials
and afternoon naps.
I thought of you again today.
How you are leaving the house
and all your old selves;
how I lag so far behind,
that I can barely see you now.