collarbone ghost

you are nothing
but a ghost, stealing away my breaths,
counting them like they are limited.

.

and still—
(hands up the ridges of my spine, a shiver;
fingertips along my collarbone, a cobweb)
still, you are
everything,
and endless. our names may not be scribed
in the stars, may be burnt into off-white walls
in cigarette-shaped rings,
but that does not mean we are any,
any
less beautiful.

.

you are nothing
but a dream-stealer, a
nightmare hoarder. and still,
still,
your bones are etched with my mark,
blistered to the white and ever red.
this way,
you might always remember.

.

but you are everything,
everything.

.

you are nothing
but an unneeded comma, a
pause for breath in the too-long sentence

life

a semi-colon, a quotation mark, a dash,
but never, never
a period.

because you are not
endgame.

.

and still—
(moth's wings on my eyelids, beating;
wrists in the crook of my neck, waiting)
still, you remain
everything.
and always, always
nothing.

.

here we stay
you, the collarbone ghost, and
me, the numbered girl,

we can be nothing
(everything)
together.


28/10