When You Take Me For a Ghost

when you take me for a ghost

you are forgiving. Every

chill in the air is a cause to be cautious, shoes

slipped off the soles of your feet in silence. The

goosebumps are the kind worth having, and

the blue in my fingers is charming, no faulty circulation.

This is how ghosts are supposed to look,

so the purple on my cheeks, red under my tongue is

welcome. You forgive me, and I’m Hamlet’s father

in this one except, I’m not asking for revenge but for

your favor— I thought I made that plain enough in Act One.

But you’ll slide closer to me right? Sigh

and see the clouds form? Press hand to cold cheek; untie the

stones from my ankles with ginger fingers? The prints on the

window are ours, not just mine and your breaths

are warmer when we’ve both spit lakewater

from our lungs.

Until then, I’m the figure in the vent above the

black box and you’re still forgiving me when the

lights go out.