is it also a kind of ghost
the part of yourself that
you leave behind in every
place that you love?
do you sometimes
see the image of me
- younger, perhaps -
floating through the halls
of the bookstore where
we sat on tables at midnight
leafing through graphic novels
or hid under those same
tables to tell ghost stories
at this time of year?
imagine it for a moment
if you will
when you miss those members
of our circle who didn’t
make it to this moment
pretend I’m there too:
some version of me that
still believes in a hopeful future
floating by
the rainbow flag on the wall
or searching out the best
erotica
to whisper in your ear
when you’re trying to work.
I love the way you write, it's heartbreaking but it makes me smile at the same time!