the wine tastes unlike the last time
she says I liked it more before
the fruit was like you
she snorts
you mean forward
you mean plump and fun
and obvious and pleasing
you mean you like that I'm easy
maybe
she invites me to smoke
towards the end of the evening
to talk about ghosts we greet one awkwardly
this one is hers
they met this summer
he left and now haunts her
cross-legged
calm apparition
introduces himself
unwinds to offer his hand
like any man has a warm grip
just because this illusion
is solid does not mean
his fangs are not
ephemeral
bruises fade
and bite marks cede to flesh
as the living move to correct
small deaths
later
we find ourselves
naked on a rock hard bed
sweaty and unfulfilled protagonist
she says
before she sleeps
that slipping inside loss
is all she feels
that first hint
of flavor gone
life
is very long
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