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Ghosts

It's night, and summer's dying,
And the cold gropes at our warm coats.
We can't blame it for trying.

Not so many stars tonight.
Although clouds loom still is the moon
Proud to show its stolen light.

Strands of hair stand up like reeds
And curl and play and dance and sway
In the irritating breeze.

A snap. The lighter's sun sets;
Clouds of our own rise to the moon
From our star-tipped cigarettes.

We watch the smoke as it fades.
We talk a bit, try to omit
Starscape inspired clichés.

Our words smell like honesty,
But what they mean we cannot dream,
Only trust the truth to be.

Our laughter and compassion
Forgive and ease our shared disease
Of self-mocking frustration.

Our words become memory,
And all we spoke, like rising smoke,
Becomes what we used to be.

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