On nights

like these, your ghost

does linger. In every

corner the wind blows

in to sweep you out

without success.

My eyes follow the air

as it storms across

my table, sucks

up paper, dust but leaves

the misty memories of death

behind the nook

right by my desk. Indelible

like the spot of sick,

the imprint of

your body wrenching

by the minute

over days, seven

weeks, actually, long,

a long time, too short

a year, remains.

Published on April 17th, 2023