… And His Name Was Michael

She waits for his death for in this life, 

their flames infused, but time thought it not be –

the ghost that visits 

is her imagination playing board games with reality.

She lays in sweet longing, 

turning pages of days torn and crumpled,

talking to the cloned figment 

her day happen to stumble.  

Heights of love swirls,

a jolted exhale from memories of their touch

 –a cry, a tear  –and more, 

the agony of sorrow, too much. 

For those almost tomorrows.