Dear Ghost —

Get well with me that I might appear more sanguine
than salacious, slickened lips lost in
& on your appearance, your magical translucency.
You bear scars of lunar eclipses & I
horizoned you. Living liminal inhabited vacancy.
Transcendent flesh current. An improvised apparition
or a cloudy encounter? Transparency
or redundancy? I fell in love with your facticities.
Always, we are someone before we became
your epitome. I stand in front of you
to mourn alone & find all is drowsy
blown wrong. Carafes of empty pour out of you,
into me. We are no sorcery, the two of us
correcting each other like androids
in need of white-out fluid, an erasure
as anodyne or might we be huffing our way,
blotted on blown skiffs, needled by
the necessity of our longing. We disappear
as winter sprints spawn gusts
of that loose other we tried to rhyme with breath
but ended up in an ivory stairwell
where we acquiesced to the erotic oneiric.
We sought to walk away, or did we?
Ghost of a schism, our love, our prison.