Six years have gone since I have been loved
by you. All appearances have been more or less
phantom. There is a boy, now, applying for your job.
He does not know this. Nor does he know how narrowly
he fills your ghost.
December and the trees are clinging to their leaves.
Here we are, season #5, fey and fucking
with us like that. Already I can feel myself
wasting this for sure, molding in my overcoats,
curling up my onion-skin