Ghosts are never really dead.
Anything that burns will rise again,
How do you layer yourself
when the dancing’s done,
when the valentines, the age-old syllabi,
the notes, the invitations,
the contexts, the online chats, the talks are gone?
Despite yourself, you start to think;
memories drag names out of the ash.
Dust swirls. You dervish until,
finally, you look like the witch you are,
covered in nothing, half-bent, choking.
Then the air comes all at once, a gift.
You remember how to fly