sleep with the dead

Spectral arms hang
around my shoulders
and off to the side,
a cigarette in their
pale,
bony grasp.
The air smells
of disappointment and
why-did-I-ever's
and
just-one-last-time's
as I come to grips
with the apparitions
inside my head.
She tells me that
I'm ethereal and
I can't help but
believe her,
except when it's me
thinking of
him.
Then she wraps herself
up in the night and says to
"Call me when you want
Me."