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I want more kisses. I was ten; glum, dim
child, full of shakes and flu-fevers. “Gain dull

wi’ th’ morbs,” you said, as you, my dear Grim
Grin Ghost, perched on my bed. They say feral

kids make feral ghosts. Perhaps. But you held
my hand, sang of Eynhallow the Prankster,

who slit you ear to ear. What you beheld
when you returned you told me in whisper,

in my fever. Spirits don’t keep secrets
from their lovers, not as the living do.

All I get are emojis and dearth. Ghost,
I don’t boast; I’m footnote to both spirits

and the living. Ghost, I want to kiss you.
I want your ruined, slit-slush lips the most.

The morbs is 1880s British slang for melancholia.