and they talk just like you

there are tiny ghosts of you everywhere I go.
in my living room, under the table lamp; dancing their fingers in the soft light of dust and cold air, pretending not to see me, humming under their breath.
sitting at the bottom of the bottles I never finish; writing circles around himself, tapping his hands against the glass and telling me to drink it; to drink him up.

there are tiny ghosts of you in my hair and on my clothes.
swinging from the ceiling fan when I kiss him.
there are ghosts in the letters of my own name.
there are ghosts that lift me up by the chin, tell me I’ve looked happier; to do what it takes to get back to that.

there are ghosts of you in the dust of my room.
ones who swing in the soft yellow light and tug at my hair when they pass by.
ones who smile at me, tell me not to shake so much.
there are ghosts in my mouth when I talk about you.
they hold onto my teeth, make the absence less empty; make it heavy and ever-growing.

– Excerpt from a book I’ll never write

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