Ghost

Upon my skin, where fingers once crossed,

Electricity hum memories lost,

For reasons buried deep,

For reasonings forgotten.

When the summer birds sing for remembrance,

To beacon from the abyss, a failed romance,

A memory floats back:

A winter night—

Cozy socks, a blank shirt, pants coloured black,

A purple dress.

I felt your pulse beneath my touch—

Your wrist, your neck—I felt too much.

And as my lips departed into yours,

My heart faded into a bleeding sun.

Now, when the winters approach,

Reds and yellows recede,

And trees stand barren as the last leaf concedes,

Shadows whisper to the wind, to the skies

Of summers dressed in loved little lies.

And when the cool night’s breeze finds my skin,

The abyss of failed romances call out within.

For where your fingers had crossed and stayed,

The ghosts of our sunken past return to play.