March 23, 2011
The ghost of you leaves
Not a single hollow handprint.
Bloody, bloody footsteps, but
No trace on pale carpets.
I can let go
Of your icicle fingers with ease;
It’s too easy to wipe away specter fingerprints.
Haunting songs, forgotten
As soon as they are sung—
Why can’t I cling to your memory?
Why does it slither
From a lax fist that clenches only when you are gone?

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