There are ghosts hanging in the space between her breath,
Little pieces of smoke and ash that tangle in her hair
And snag on the tips of her canines as she inhales

Born of regret, of want, like a cat she prowls
And licks herself clean with a dark tongue,
Swallows her hair and chokes on it,

Swallows the words dripping from her skin
Before they fall and pool on the hot earth
And evaporate to nothing

The words;

In her sleep, she breathes them out
Onto the crisp white pillowcase
And the open window carries them off

To faraway worlds where speech is three dimensional
And writing is all done with skin on skin,
Where there is no space between her lips and her heart