Yesterday, I came home to meet your ghost in my living room, leafing through my books and sipping my Oolong.
Odd, because you drink coffee and because I had only just left you at the Marseille train station at the end of a long day in wounded silence. And whereas your expression had been vengeful as you kindly packed my luggage into a taxi we refused to share, your ghost didn’t seem to hold a grudge. He simply took my shoulders in his tender, sun-kissed hands and said, “Honey, you look half-dead, come nap with me.”
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