Doing Dishes with Ghosts

In warm water and bergamot soap, I have not forgotten

how you took my hands and ran them along the scar

on your chin. See? Not so bad. You never met a tree

you didn’t fall out of. You gave me the great permission

of time. I needed someone to tell me it would be alright

and there you were, pushing my hair from my eyes,

pulling your shirt on almost in time for my roommate

to open the door. No one had ever been so kind, buying

me dinner in your work clothes, letting me put my foot

on your chair, your smile when we kissed, that exhale,

your voice tumbling liquidy and thrilled, telling me you

weren’t sure you had me. But you did. And you liked

that strangers kept asking about my shoes in the grocery

store, told me you never met someone with so many books.

I felt lucky, when you stood at the threshold of my door

with your loud heart beat and brown eyes. You chose me.

I don’t know why you couldn’t wait for me to choose you

back. I was scared. I was tired. But I guess you can’t beg

a ghost for anything. They’re not there. Not really.