We would sit on the steps of the porch
so the sun would warm our legs but spare our eyes.
She would peel potatoes and I would ask her,
where she got that scar
how many boyfriends she has had
how many bones she has broken
if her heart had ever been torn
and how many times and by who
and what was the worst cut she had ever had.
"I don't know Kels. That was all a long time ago."
That always seemed like ******* to me.
How could you not know many people
you have let touch your lips with theirs?
But then I grew.
I grew and I got scraped, and burned
and broken over and over.
I had my heart stolen
and I gave it away again and again.
Every experience just stacked against the other.
So I guess I kind of get what she was saying now.

She's like a dream
she just appears
Three A.M.
She isn't real
He's like a dream
Her body is a shell
Did last night happen?
She can never tell
Was she here?
He never knows
The complex life
of loving a ghost.
Do I want him?
She asks herself
Silently she stays,
but by morning nothing's left.