Shadow Thing.

There is always that shadow thing,
She said, that feeling that he’s still
There, even though you know he’s dead

And fled this dreary place, still see
His face in the fine faces of
Others similar to his from

A distance, or hear his voice in
The dark of night or on a full
And crowded train, or yet again

Feel his hand upon my arm or
Around my waist, his lips upon
My cheek or chin or neck, and him

Pleading for me to let him in,
Open up, he seems to say, and
His voice won’t stop or go away.