I have suspicions about the last ghost in my house
who does not haunt me, but might have done the wash
and brought it in before the rain came maybe.
It has touched me so unlike the others who forget,
leave only cold imprints on the brown tile,
cream carpet footfalls that press chilled and are gone.
It is your touch, I think, it’s you, and you
moan, I know your sound, and how you practice
to brush the hairs on my arm in quieting peace.
For you have died and come to live here
for the time that I have left as well,
friend of my spirit, here in spirit, and I
know you will go with me, for I believe
that you have come to take me with you as I leave.
Tonight I felt the touch of your hand
a slightest brush that set
my pulse up, I do not doubt
the rise of me in you
forever touching me
only me again
what are the chances
how you express
yourself in me
in my imaginary love, you are
light’s fierce competition with dark
for supremacy in my heart
the one in love with the idea of being in love
this instant with you, that naked foot above,
how tonight I will dream of you, how you
haunt the upper floors
above me lying here, just silver
you in the moonlight, ghostly
and me, now in the years of falls and broken hips,
sense how your hand still brushes mine to sleep.