A ghost in this worn hoodie, blue and deep,
An ocean once, long ago, now almost dry,
Like finally my eyes, that she is gone and lost.
A scent, faint, of her sweet perfume, the funk
Of her sweat, the smell I knew holding her close,
That was sweet too, as was her washed, in bed.
Still a pack of smokes in the pocket, not what did
End up killing her, just bad luck, bad day, bad shit,
And the cigarettes are stale, just rags of wasted death.
I wear it in this cold season, walking home on dead
Streets and boring stores and empty skies, keeping
Her close, feeling her spirit in fabric soaked with her life.
But it becomes me, sweating in winter, and my scents
Chase hers away, and the cigarettes will eventually be
Thrown out, and it will only be me, me chasing her out.
Even ghosts are worn down by tides and seasons and life.