her ghost.

i still find her

on the sill

in the dying

birthday flowers – near to faded,

pretty in the thirsty vase.

 

her stray hair in the bath,

her scrawl on some scrap paper –

her receipt, screwed in denim

pocket and breathe her for a moment,

forever, her surprising sillage

 

as I pass the chair she favoured,

i hear the songs; of course, her laugher

but, her fragrance surprises most:

her ghost, its permanence.

her class.

 

27 thoughts on “her ghost.

  1. I read this holding my breath, like when you are listening for something you are worried you will not hear because it will be so faint, the nearly imperceptible movement of air which may indicate a presence. Beautiful. Sending you hugs, Nick.

    Liked by 1 person

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