[[“besos fantasmas,” kisses from your favorite ghost, darling]]

Kiss like an omen. Kiss like its doomsday.

Cold bled lips. “Besos de un fantasma,”

as my lover, a Cádiz ghost, would say.

Swell. Her ozone. When I lick her karma

she melts. Love has no rules, which is why

I’m so bad at it. There should be rites, witch

craft, blood oaths; anything to defy

expectations. I ruined her death, glitch

in the fog, by calling her only half

way home. I’m a lousy fish. I keep her

asleep in my small eye. Palpitations;

she wakes, crawls out with a kiss and a laugh.

I love it all bad: bad teeth, bad posture,

bad rites and bad Spanish teenage demons.