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Your ghost, a white candle in this night -
smile broken, though eyes bright as carnival rides.
You wander these streets, punch-drunk on the stars as the lights are stubbed out in the neighbourhood bars.
Your voice, thin as smoke, barely exits your mouth.
There’s blood in your hair and a fire to the south.
Your skeleton moves in a waltz with the stairs and the well of your heart, full of no-one who cares.
Your words, a white wreath at the cusp of the hill, to mark off the kill, where the blood was spilled.
You’re the back of the mirror, you’re the ghost of the tide and I would die twice, if you stayed tonight
(Don’t stay tonight).

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