I hallucinate you into existence, my dear dead friend:
wear your denims, one week worn in the holiday hills.
I walk around caressing, pressing their grubby thighs.
I nuzzle the nape of your neck in the night-warm duvet.
I read you, inventing clues, collapse us into timelessness
Hold my hand up in the black air and wait for reciprocity.
I pare the gentle skin from the imagined ink of a committed thought
I presume we’ve made love without even knowing.
Death is the distance, your pulse alive the butterfly wings
Which stir me.
I envisage you a graceless dancer, bursting with fire.