A Voice

He is a ghost.

I can't remember the subtleties of his face.

He is a shadow of a boy caught in a photograph--

He can't really be there, can he?

But I can see him clearly only when I close my eyes and dream him.

I can't remember the intricacies of his voice.

He is a whisper on the other end of a phone line;

A breathing that doesn't wish to speak.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Sometimes I talk to myself to invent the things he would say.

The smell in the nape of his neck is gone.

He is a fragile scent of lavender caught in the breeze;

Though I am not near any flowers.

I am in the dark, in a room, windows closed.

I hold the pillows and breathe him in.

My fingers have forgotten his skin, his texture, his warmth.

He is an unknown spot of cold in an otherwise warm sunlight.

I miss the way you held me.

I miss the way we danced. 

I can't remember the salt of his kiss, his skin.

He is the chapped lips of a dry, harsh wind.

Exposed heart and soul is left burned and withered.

Cool glasses of water make me think of him.

He is a ghost.