There’s this ghost of you
sending me text messages
that mouth the words I love you
with my sound turned off.
I find your love notes
hours later
after the day has weathered
my resistance, and I
glance at my phone
before crawling into bed
to waltz with poems.
Alone with my words, I
craft the spaces in which
you travel,
telling tales of this ghost of you
on the tip of my pen
like the tip of your tongue
flicking off language
as if to shake off the wet.
I remember your I love you
like texts, like notes
written years ago
like stars, remember the light.
This ghost of you is just a memory.
Your words are silent.
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