by Zahra Lipson | Writing |

A Ghost and Closeness - by Zahra Lipson

The white cotton space between us
becomes an intimacy on its own
as daytime stumbles in, slow refracting rays
dusty and wine colored
glaring at Three, thinning at Four
I am pale and still as cooperative paper,
but even in my stillness I upset the air–
it recoils like Pandora’s burnt fingertips
at the sight of these contused souvenirs
purple golden magnets,
flower petal fabric.

Dull echoes jolt down the empty halls and cradle me in their
hesitant advocacy–
they string themselves across the walls, and I keep my eyes
where their lilac bodies meet
where shadows stretch themselves
cold, bruised, early winter spills

Fatigued at Five, giving up by six
You are a ghost and closeness.
Can you hear the clumsy whispering?
it laughs at me and my
wishful idealistic thinking
and it laughs
at the poorly protected void behind my failed ribcage
that revels in this muffled opiate thrill

as the rain taps the window
and twilight throws itself against my skull
We are described with better words–
although, Lover,
you are not my lover
and maybe, friend, beneficiary
we are supposed to be ashamed of this red-brick road
vanity wound after vanity wound unwinding

but our wants are nothing torrid
instead, we are calm in our magnetic impulses
and I am cold,
my ice-body knows the mausoleum
my blue purple mouth is frozen open, recording our memory.