four songs to four phantoms

now and then I dream.
I even miss you, sometimes --
or, at least, your ghost.

I am no ambrosia.
I will strangle you with love.

*

you called me 'muse' first
when locked in a three-month dream;
carved a curse on me.

I knew it, the purest love,
the vinegar tang of woe.

*

inkstain on my soul
a blue welt on my timeline
a gasped wail, tearful --

you never even touched me.
(imagine if you'd done so!)

*

I twitch my fingers
the way I did that sick night.
to prove I am here:

to make sure I'm still awake
breathing, gloriously free.