If I could swallow
our words, our
poisonous voices,
push them deep within myself,

I would.

But your pain
vanished in a moment,
and then you left.
You left.

Those scenes flash
against the ordinary,
more pernicious than ghosts,
because they travel with me.

I am lonely, though
I try to not be.

Now you are High Society,
the Ritz, diplomats and gin,
while I wander towards
our old spots, alone,

seeking ghosts.

But there is nowhere
that is haunted,
but myself.