her ghost.

still i find her,

on the sill,

in the fading

birthday flowers,

in the thirsty vase.

a stray hair in the bath,

her scrawl on some scrap paper.

a receipt, screwed in denim.

pocket and breathe

for a moment,

forever, her sillage

as I pass the chair she favoured.

i hear her songs; of course, her laugher,

but, it is this fragrance that returns her ghost:

its permanence.

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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