Ghost of a Girl

I wish you could see it tonight. Tonight it’s red–just red–and set up next to a shock of cloud white. I could say: Your absence always sang louder than words. Or: Red was never your color. So, instead, here I am waiting around for a brokedown car to start. Red or white or whatever color you ask and the bartender politely mixes it in your pint glass with a splash of soda. Here’s one on tbe house. Here’s two for the show. And then my fingers drum out a pattern on the bar and you watch as whatever I am to you separates into some detached ghost of a girl.