Kissing Your Ghost
Half awake, half aware, in a blanket of twilight,
silent suffocation beneath it's vacuum weight;
in the severed grasp between realisation
and the drowsy semi-dreaming state.
I miss your kiss, sweet dew-bathed lips
pressed light as crushed luxuriant silk
upon my dormant, hungry mouth
with honeycomb zest and buttermilk.
Your absence won't suckle or resuscitate
the passion emaciating deep down in me;
I will feed and dream of surrogate love,
of kissing your ghost for company.
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