Daydreaming

Graham haunts my days, he fills my head with cigarette smoke
clumped clouds of misremembered moments, projecting
the one time when he touched my neck
to feel the leather, metal buckle against my throat
he pulls the clasp

I
hold
my
breath
half waiting
for him to tie me
ebi shibari.

“I like it,” he says as he bats my hair back
and this is the closest we’ve ever been
palm skimming a jaw
awkward flirting in a coffee shop
unlike the teenage heartthrobs who get it right the first time
I wonder if he’s trying to get a rise out of me
but the only thing that moves
is the mercury
my head hot and the humidity
dripping from my clenched palms

Do you think
he imagines me too, that he is drunk on
his own fantasy?
do you think
ghosts have their own spectres
who haunt their dreams?

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