93. it might be like this

I look as if I’m here,
but I’m not –
I’m just a ghost, a remnant,
an empty shell
of something, someone,
you once knew, or dreamt maybe, long ago.
I’m a memory,
I’m an outline on the wall
you think you glimpse
when you’re half asleep
or waking up;
I’m a breath of scent
or cologne, imperceptibly
detected or imagined
& causing you to glance back over your shoulder
to see from whence it came,
I’m the lights in your rear view mirror,
that suddenly disappear.
I’m the words on the page
looking back at you,
that as you read,
seem to have a familiar ring, as if read before;
I’m the phone call that when you pick up
there’s no-one there, or just a click.
I’m that nagging thought
at the far reaches of your mind
that says you’ve something to do,
unfinished or unstarted business.
I’m the unseen shadow always there,
just out of sight, over your left shoulder.
Look closely –
I’m the full stop
at end of this sentence.