Breathing
without oxygen.
Pumping
without blood.
Rising
without limbs.
I am a ghost
misting outside your window.
you turn from your crimson painting
brush in hand
frown at the February sky
pull your sweater against the chill
and draw the curtains
tightly.
I pound phantom fists
But the still fence
goes on dreaming of the spring vegetables
you will plant.
I wail and scream and cry
But no one hears.
The only sound
ticka ticka ticka
dead vines
on your peeling porch
in the winter wind.
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