Ghost friends,

Ghost friends, 
like 
the kind of friend
you laughed with in
a heat-forged bond invincibly
and permanent - and
moving on. And drifting 
from, as sometimes does 
this pulled-part world 
drag just like hands 
on sticky buns.

The tacky honeyed 
nutty strands can't 
hold. You blink, 

and we are gone.  

We separate to 
gorgeous lives, you call

three times

in widening runs, of twoish,
fiveish, tenish months. They
called four times, you think.

That last had such a gap! 
Between before, and held 
you each unawkwardly. 

But not enough to keep 
the score. It's just you each
(each one supposed) "they're
probably busy" now for me.
Well that's your call. Or lack
thereof. About each time 
occurs to reach - too far, 

you fall. 

The dare to grasp for more
that once was effortless, when
orbits intersected lives,
has dissipated without cause.

We needed cause, I guess.

How wise.

Now we're just ghosts.
All hearts on Instagram, 
or thumbs. Fuck 

Facebook man. 
We still react. But commenting 
brings instant twinge 

of how dare I, with who
I am? Now in this life, all guilt
in how connection stretched,

too far 

and snapped. 

Goodwill to ring.
From both to each! 
We once were blessed,
but disconnect. Or just 

keep haunting flickering
in
warp 
& weft.