the last time I had spoken to ghosts
was when I unbuttoned the world
and took a seam ripper to all its edges
sitting in your old chair
holding the fabric of remembrance
chewing on the mouldy taste of grief
slowly freeing the overlocked words
I had buried deep into the stitches

the thing is,
when I get dressed in the morning
There's always a button missing
There's always a sadness
stuck in the hem