It was half past typical - it was time
I watched him slip on his coat
And walk out into the alley without tears
And thought - Nothing touches him
he floats above all things
like fog weaving through the details
of curiosities and anguish
I am now beginning to know
In this night wary and shadowy betrayal
What it means to be a ghost
imagined and vague
His tapping fingers never really touching my skin
My spillover solitude never finding his focus

Words © malai carrara 2012
image by yuri pritisk