i don't see you
through the
ghosts we've
shaken from
the walls in
this room.
or, rather, we
wake them when
you take my finger
and trace
the
curve of my soft and ridgeless fingernail.
(baby, baby, baby pink
curve, says the girl with the red
hair, blue shirt,
i steal away to her
when you're not
here.)
"i am
always
serious."
"i
don't
believe
you."
it's not language
we
speak
when we
fix each
other solid
in the fog of
ghosts,
unhappy ghosts, they
speak by
guiding my hand across
your chest.
Post a Comment