Tonight, I look
like an unfinished poem.
My hair is messy and down
far past my waist. I have
two pockets full
of mournful and a changepurse
full of sky.
I am staring into puddles
on the sidewalk and asking myself
how I can float in such shallow water.
How I can nosedive into such
empty promises.
Tonight, my body
is a costume to a party
that I am attending alone.
It is a postcard signed
wish you were here
but it has
no address,
no one
to bury it
in their notebook
like a secret
like I am the love poems
I write to ghosts.