the ghost and the redundant redolence

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What may she have seen?

the great void’s great void
and someone has hotboxed the place
but the ghost, mostly sheet these days
does not know how to breathe

What must she be thinking?

wondering where this is leading
pondering its painful simplicity
then, maybe, what pain could be
and where she got that idea

“I don’t know about you…”

He is, in fact, remembering things he doesn’t know how to explain.

“…but I hate the cold.”

The weirdest part, by the longest shot, is that he isn’t using his wings.

“And the dark.”

He glimpses a familiar scent; a fizzing fleck of Friday dawning in the spring.

“Um.”

…what the fuck does that mean?

“That taste of ash,” he pauses, grimacing.

meaning, it seems, is opaque here
walls made too well to be seen
the way laid obverse to sense

“…is it getting stale?”

and the top-note, repeating

On and on with little for looking yet more and more ground to gain.

But now, again, ahead of them –

that, and its dread frame.

“Oh no,” the small voice mutters.

he shakes, stripes to shoelaces

“Same, um. Plan as before?”

A wind chime solo.

“Are you hearing this? Does it sound familiar?”

space and shape

“I feel like I’ve heard it, um.”

hesitate

“Somewhere.”

The small voice doesn’t look.

The ghost does not slow.

Briefly beside and briskly beyond, both go.

The sound remains behind with the second shrinking line.

On and—

Oh no.

—down dives the temperature, doubly deep this time.

It’s cold. It’s only cold. It will be fine. Count back from

“Five,” he whispers to himself, eyes glued to the floor.

It’s only bad weather. It does not hurt.

is he casting spell?

“Four.”

No blade. Just air.

saying a prayer?

“Three.”

In. Out. There is no sting.

a tic?

“Two.”

The trick is up his sleeve.

an eve?

“One.”

Um.

A moment.

“Um.”

He seems to be intact.

“Sorry,” the small voice says.

what

“You know, I would offer to share my sweater, but it’s smaller than it looks.”

Can’t help himself.

“Wearing it is mostly a hassle, actually. It’s useless against the wind and it freezes below room—um.”

 

crash.

 

“Wait,” he says, “this is my sweater… I remember this. This is my least favorite sweater!”

how is he doing that?

“It tastes awful, so I wear it instead! Get it? It’s um.”

Wait.

“It sounded funny in my head, I think,” he thinks aloud, “I’m not al—er, um. I don’t remember why it’s funny. Um.”

He reexamines his hyperpetite husk.

“Does it look funny?”

A look.

“My sleeves are ankle-length,” he says, “one more stitch and you wouldn’t see me at all.”

His soul for a smile.

“I can’t remember anything else. It’s gone.”

Some strange spirit haunts his tongue;

A lot of something seems to pass by, and on.

a silent hum.

The only one way looms way too long.