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Yesterday I came home
To meet your ghost in my living room.
Flipping through my books
And sipping my oola.

Odd. Because you drink coffee.
And because I had only just left you
At the Marseille train station.
The end of a long day in wounded silence.

And were as your expression
Has been vengeful,
As you kindly packed my luggage
Into a taxi we refused to share.

Your ghost didn't seem to hold a grudge.
It simply took my shoulders
In his tender sun-kissed hands and said
"Honey, you look half-dead!"
Come out with me.

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