Constantly caffeinated, I’m writing for a ghost.
I’m tongue-tied-tripping over my apologies,
hands scattering words with each bloody knuckle.
Each night is your night, and I’m tired of waiting.My skin is cold,
I am terrified of you.In my dreams
you are ruthless, you are loving,
you are holding me beneath the water
and you are saying, ‘trust me,’ so I do.‘Trust me,’ and my eyes roll back.
‘Trust me,’ and my lips turn blue.
‘Trust me,’ and with water in my lungs, I do.
You told me Elvis
died on the toilet, pants
around his ankles, and I
wondered if he had been
reading a magazine, what
his hair looked like, I won-
dered if he had been sur-
prized when death caught
him, or if he had taken
her hand. These things
have a way of sneak-
ing up on us: I watched a
friend…
