The first time I saw a ghost
was in place of my own reflection.
It was so quick I didn't believe it
actually happened until now.
You know what they say:
when you see something once,
you see it again and again.
When I saw the ghost of you,
I knew. It was in your coffee cup,
faces of the coin collection
you told me to never spend. Where
did you go after that? We leave
so many things to trace and still
never find each other. If we are dead,
why don't we fall before our pieces
bury in another pillow or between
walls with nests of newspaper?
There is so much yellowing
in voices anymore. My ghost
(or yours or someone's) followed me
again today. I must have asked
too many questions; it was a year
before I saw the door open
on its own. I left it there hoping
for a gust to shut it with fury.