I’m making love
to ghosts,
letting them invade me
like a small army:
flattening a complicated
but unwanted
territory.
Mud dried in the impressions
on the bottom of their boots,
as they stomp all over me,
as they take refuge
in the dark creases
near the corner of my eyes.
I feed them pound cake
made out of the beaten pieces
of my own heart,
as I pretend
to no end
that they are you.
I am making love
to ghosts,
while I can taste the smell
of you breathing.
I take the air that has already circulated
throughout your entire body,
as it drips
like small drops of sap
from the exposed limb of a tree root,
as it becomes a bulbous
expression
of my love
for you:
one that I can trap
in my mouth,
one that lets me swallow you
whole.
I pretend you still exist here beside me.
I’m making love
to ghosts,
as I have let
a brigade of men
colonize
the small country
of my skin,
as it sweats sweet
while you are on top of me,
as I write myself to sleep.
Expression
becomes something I do now
with the door wide open,
with all of the lights on.
As I’m making love
to ghosts,
I think about
the last time I actually saw you,
as I am making love
to ghosts, as I
start to enjoy it,
as I
brush the hair off of the forehead
of my favorite
muse,
as I am making love
to ghosts,
as my muse
becomes the shadow
of the person
that was once
you.
As I’m making love
to ghosts,
I fall asleep
with all of the windows
in my house open,
I surrender
to the idea of you
haunting me
forever.
I let the sunlight flood the room
and it turns everything red
when I shut my eyes.
As I’m making love
to ghosts,
I muffle their cries
and instead,
listen to the crows
crying outside
and wonder if they too
are crying for you?