Tonight he is the ghost upstairs,
Laying blankets over messes and
Seeing half of himself in mirrors he shattered.
He smokes me away like money
Or sanity
Into the sleeve of an old sweater.

My unhappiness is so full, I feel as though
I could swim in it.
Hold my breath and forget in its
suffocating softness.
And maybe I can emerge semi-conscious
Into blinding daylight and,
Like water,
Evaporate.

I can be the smoke that spirals
around the halo of his lips
Like hope.
Be, maybe, the aroma clinging to his t-shirt
Or the sheet that entangles him
When he tosses in his dreams.
But not the worry he ignites and inhales.

The sky was yellow when he left.
I think everything I saw was rotting
Or being interrogated; exposed. Filthy.
Can I crawl away from here or are there no more
Shadows? So many things die each second
And I mourn because I am vapor.
Somewhere a dog barked.