I walk past dorms
I used to live in.
I see my ghost
ruffling her hair
and testing lipstick shades
in the bathroom.
I watch her
flirt
with someone
who’s now merely
a face on my feed
but whose memory still
stings.
I can point out
the spot
where we talked
and kissed
and talked again
sketch it out
with the edges
of my sneakers.
The spot
between the fire escape
and the cherry blossom tree
that bloomed
too soon.
I can still
hear him
asking how
I’m not cold
with my hair
wet
in February.
I see myself
laugh
at his question
and his mittens
and wonder why
he can’t feel me
burning.
By Danielle Fusaro
