to the boys kissing her

 "I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. "

She—
slips in like fog through a cracked wedding teacup,
dissolves like spun sugar in the throat of a vow,
lingers like lamb's breath.
Oh my.
She’s the poltergeist in the plumbing.
The hum between walls.
The devil tap-tap on my breastbone xylophone.

And me?
A coat on a hook.
A peeling corner of wallpaper.
A little sigh watching from the corner.
Her parade floats: blinky-lashed dreamboats—
pearled and prancing.
They gleam half moon smiles. They reach
for wishbones. But always: almost.
Their hearts, pomegranate seeds
rolling under her bed.

O Revered Tribunal of the Unkissed,
know this—
I, too, have bowed at the altar of What If,
clutched glitter with raccoon-hands of want,
missed like a postcard lost en route to Paris.

Now—
the track ahead is lined in spilled salt
No detours. No delays.
Trains chug forward;
Trains do not detour for wishbones.
Tick, chug. Tock, chug. Forward.

We wove the days (foolishly, gloriously!)
from daisy chains and glass beads.
Soft! Silly! Scrumptious!
Yet somehow—they formed
fashionable handcuffs.

Today I must bend, I bendy-bend, a willow in a tutu,
as everything else remains static.
And maybe—you, too—
will find this strange path:
relentless, ridiculous,
and wide enough for the likes of us.