It’s only ghosts here in the winter.
When you’re in love all this
“life” stuff feels like a play —
a game; a dream. And when
you’re not, it’s not. That’s just
how it works. Nights like these
I feel like I’ve forgotten how to
dream. I used to dream of flying.
I miss the wind in my hair, the
sun on my face. But most of
all, I miss your sighs; how the
longing in them would rise up —
up through the zephyrs and comets —
dissolving into stardust that just
might, with a bit of luck, power
the universe for an-