I long for a ghost to greet me here,
halfway across the rust red bridge,
to challenge me now with a lover’s kiss,
which burns to red on my own dry lips.
Her hair to fall long, beyond death’s hold,
but her neck, her face a brush of cold:
and for me to lean into death’s cool mask,
for me to succumb to her breath of chance:
inhale the vacuum expunged from her lungs,
and I breathe into her my breath of song.