I stand in a downpour and read the story of my life,

which is our story, pressure between two ghosts.

I give you a city as though it were distant.

I don’t know my blood,

but I carry the weight of desperation—

especially in a universe so raw, so indifferent.

I wait for fog to tie my shoes,

and hope love might let me kiss

its dark, nacreous breast.

It was always me, stranded on a beach

like a ghost made of paper cuts,

watching the white pain of silence.

I want time to dry my silhouette,

to write this memory on disconsolate wind.

I’ll slip it in your mailbox,

the one full of your black hair,

and hope you read it

while our gazebo burns.

There are no stars left but the dead ones,

and the paper ones above your window.

I watch our shadows merge with theirs

while dishes wash dishes

and we walk into the sea, holding hands.

So many stories,

but mine ends before it begins—

when stars die, and I’m beside myself

on the beach, a paper cut made of

ghosts, like fire in silhouette,

rising in blue pain,

its back always turned, returning.