Makes shadows—
Ghost of you and me.
You’re not real
But a sepia memory
Of a faded history.
If I stand
On this street long enough
I’ll feel your hand in mine,
Each scar
Enlarges my heart
And shortens my earthly time.
It seems peculiar
How you see through me—
I’m the ghost
Who makes your soul hurt
In spaces between us,
I quietly drown
In waters so deep
I won't be found;
And now like you
Am also dead
This street my tomb
My grave our bed.