Shadow Specter (002)

The folded sheaf of my hair
used to trap the smoke slipping
from your cherry Prime Time cigars
like a collection jar;
the morning I woke up hunted,
all I could smell was wet dirt
and still-green pine needles.

A shadow specter
seen through slit-screen eyes,
I spent the day haunting you
in crowded corridors
and stringing monsters
like beads
on dream catcher braids. 

I was just out of sight
at the place where awareness
stretches into could-have-beens
when you forgot how to breathe
without blood staining the curves
of your smile.