Whispers of her gold still leaf among my books – 

impossible. Still, I found another strand today, 

this one slinking among the pages of Don Quixote,

which she never even read, like a lost bookmark –

freed of the past she lived in, settled into the spine.

A new book.

A grandiloquent scheme – a sinister fact –  

a complete mystery. 

I outlive the sun – it goes on. 

Then I sneak into the art-house we lived at.  

So long. 

I think a beautiful thing might save me.

This is life when you lose your way.

I speak with her ghost now and wonder

does she speak to mine? 

Do our ghosts escape together in the night

and know things – something –  

anything other than this? 

Like everything else I know – impossible.  

Miracles. Ghosts. A single hair. Anything. 

Impossible.