Little Ghosts

Your breasts are buried underground,
Two gems that get smaller
Each time it rains. The rest of you
Was cremated, and your
Ashes blew into the air where
Birds wear them as mascara.
As for me? I shop for coffins
To vacation in, but can’t decide which
One suits me best. Not sure, should
I paint the inside pink or baby blue?
I wish you were here to consult.
At least your last year was
Beautiful: you had a new man
Who used to fuck you
In clean hotel rooms, on windowsills,
And when both of you were high.
The two of you said I love you
In a hotel room that had a guillotine
In the closet, beside the safe.
You always sported a buzz
So cuss words seemed poetic.
But now you’re dead, and I have no one
To look for in the darkness of bedrooms.
We had our differences,
But in the end, all that really mattered
Was we had a chance to share
The same kisses. And now those kisses are
Little ghosts that float around me when I sleep.