Everyone has a ghost.
Some call them their first love.
I call mine you.

You're my ghost,
the stone in my heart.
And how does one -
erode a stone?

Vitrification?
Turn you into something,
pleasing to touch?

Oh -
but my hands are -
cold as snow.

Oxidisation fermenting beneath
the last coat since his internment.

A dry hinge waiting to squeak at
the first ouverture.

Erosive, abrasive corrosive,
Titanic’ed with time, dept charged

in a framed vitrification, where
sharks and rust never sleep!