my ghost constant

i have a ghost constant
his face sometimes shines pale like the brittle of an egg
and a light within it,

or like the nights of cold moon
which i look at,
there,
pressed against pitch

my ghost constant
feeding on the air of my dreams

there as i wash my hair in the shower
scrub my bent neck
and long feet.

i want to feed the ghost
books, songs, little boxes,
an ashtray, a chess piece,
a reminder
that i am squeezing the invisible
hand with my hand

i fear he consumes only
empty air

but for those moments
when his body touches mine
with life