The ghost of you passes over my chest and
Takes many forms:

Is the beginning and end of my day,
Awake I am with you,
Haunted–yet I still believe;
I still believe and it kills me,
I do not know from where
My bountiful weakness springs
But it tastes like you, flows
Like you. I can close my eyes and
Repaint you from memory, with
Pastels, water colors and a dose
Of prayer. I can be on my knees
Each night and feel my fingers
Spread across my forehead,
The parting of my two minds,
The elemental gospel of self
Opposition, the loudest
Voices in
My own mind.
I’m whispering the
Blueprint of my downfall–
Words unrolled,
Perceptive future melancholy,
Little paper cuts up and down
My own body.
I bleed; I am kept alive by
Platelets and a hope made of
Conversations past.
Will I be mended?
Will the taste of salt visit me one
More time before I am
Nothing more than lungs and
Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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