white shirts hang
below the ceiling
bodyless
above my head
like anonymous ghosts
clean and repentant
*
I think of the eye
that observes me
from inside the old nameless wood
*
the faces that disappear
around the corner
into a room
that I don’t want to enter anymore
*
and I imitate your voice
because you’re still here
*
I say what I think you’d say
but it’s always the old
always the same
always the known
*
and yet you speak in dreams
wandering across the worlds
in and out of bodies
you climb out of your death
and come back to life
within my silhouette
Croque-Melpomene 