And I still see you,
handsome as ever,
ink-sketch body against
the setting sun.
There’s a ghost in that outline-
rotoscope memories dancing
across glassy eyes,
a furrowed brow that doesn’t 
seem to fit quite right on your face.
A figure losing definition
in the downpour,
you sparked a cigarette to life,
a lone light diminishing as 
we drew away.