Ghost Imprint

I never know if you really existed.
I remember only your ghost imprint,
a flowing white cotton nightgown,
your naked silhouette apparent by light.

I remember the fragrance of jasmine,
pots of hot oolong tea,
curry salmon with mashed potatoes,
and spooning while half asleep.

Your image is of questionable reality,
a breeze blowing through the window,
the dancing of the curtains,
no one ever really knows for sure.

What is real is uncertain.
What happened is forgettable.

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