By Faith Padgett

At best, you dissipate slower,
Giving you seconds between my lips and your dissolution—
But like sand through a sift, you still always slip away.

I’ve been throwing your name into placid ponds,
Attesting to your existence, your persistence,
But now you can’t not skip like a stone.

But I’ll still speak to you until it sticks.
You’re my Ghost,
Ghost. Ghost. Ghost.

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