The ghost who roams my soul reminds me of that
last message received from someone I can’t write back,

Like a dream I can’t recall, yet can’t forget-
-which, as I awake, escapes my head;

but much more real,

like the words I read in letters you sent;
the ideas you said were never meant
for anyone else.

Designs of tempered beauty,
your lines, like fire, consumed me-
-I wanted to tell,

but you weren’t there, and no one’s left.
I’ve new thoughts to share, new images etched.
So filled and then spent by ink spilled from your pen;
by words freed from your lips;
that long after they’ve run out,
I still feel the glow of with
precede the cold of without.