Next to the bridge downtown, the one that disappears into the clouds, your shadow moves across fresh snow until it rests its head on my shoulder. You were once my girl, but now you’re my ghost. I’m sure you would take great delight in knowing this. Can just imagine the grin on your lips and how it would spread across that feline face in giddy, radiant pleasure. You’d see it as apt punishment for all those times I’d put you down for being so innocent and naive when all you ever wanted was for me to care. I could be a cruel lover with you, it’s true, and back then my actions left a lot to be desired. You once asked why I took such delight in tormenting you. My response, casual and forthcoming, was that you looked so pretty when you cried and that your sadness spoke to me on a level that went deeper than mere looks. It was the truth, and yet… Such a strange and delicate creature you were, one that I both cherished and harmed in equal measure. And you were cherished, despite what you thought. Breathing you in, I remember that perfume you used to wear, and how when I’d suck your neck the taste of it would make me want you more and more until I’d sink my fingers in and eat you all up. Your skin, your soft skin, its memory glows in my mind as does the feel of you beneath me covered in sweat while kicking your heels against my lower back. Such intimacy. Such a sense of oneness that has never left. Standing there looking at the traffic, I see not life but memory, and as your shadow wraps itself around me, I’m not quite sure where I am. You’re teasing me, whispering into my ear saying how I’ll never be able to have you again. How you know the words I write are about you and you alone, and that it must hurt knowing that what I so desperately seek is now out of reach. You were once mine. I was once yours. But not anymore. Slipping from my grasp and moving back through the snow without leaving a trace, you turn and look at me, and such a knowing look it is. With the lights of passing vehicles flashing in my face, all I can think of doing is stepping into the snow and following after you even though I know you won’t be there.