Silent as a flower, her face fell in dismay, aware that the ghost of lust ate and left, sensing that there was a different scent of perfume consuming the room, and that she had numbered and counted the he loves me, he loves me not of each petal, where the lifeless dust had settle.

I kiss her ghost, and sleep with the dust on her photograph, next to my bedside.

It's a shame, when I'm at the checkout line, and the cashier holds up my bill to the light, in search for a ghost president, or slashing a yellow marker to see if counterfeit. Even in money we can't be trusted. Makes we wonder whats next, will the government make a marker to slash our hand, or an x-ray we will have to walk through, to check if we have a dishonest heart or corrupt spirit?

Burning bridges behind you is understandable. It's the bridges before us that we burn, not realizing we may need to cross, that brings regret.

A ghost has all the time to reach for love, but never can. As a person has little time to reach for love, and never does.

It's not good to dig in the past, raise the ghost up from the grave, and have it walk with the flesh.