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


with someone

who’s now merely

a face on my feed

but whose memory still


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


in February.

I see myself


at his question

and his mittens

and wonder why

he can’t feel me



By Danielle Fusaro

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