your ghost drifts into my head like poison gas at the moments i've lived over and have been doomed to live through perpetually. a woman smokes a cigarette beside me on the bench at the train station. it smells like you after work, tired and crawling into my bed, into my arms.
no--the cigarette is not a camel. it smells like phil on the couch, leaning back and relaxed, ignoring me right next to him.
here in the present the smoke drifts into my clothing, soaking its scent there. i sit with your ghost on my shoulders, curled up against my neck.
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