You must be a ghost because some days ghosts are the only thing worth loving. I mean—young ghost, I don’t love you. I mean—I don’t know how to splinter love against the haze of your care. If I spoke enough French, I could thank you for your tendress and perhaps you’d laugh. Sometimes I pretend you have eyes and I know their colour. Once, I almost saw your mouth and didn’t understand the contour of your lips. Do you believe in souls or tongues or the eight bones of my wrist? Instead of finding faith, I’ll invite you to haunt the sanctuary of my ears. Please: whisper unshaped benedictions until I learn the structure of my throat. Do you know ghosts aren’t the only thing that can make me cry?
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