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.