Ghosts are the memories Encounters we had

 I shot an arrow, aimed at a friend (probably not) (Lost Angeles)
She ghosted in 2017, telling me she *would*.
I guess you can call that honesty, white trash style.
I know *you're* still out there... unless you're dead.
It's possible.

Ghosts are the memories
Encounters we had
Connections broken
Some good, some bad.
Just because you'll do upskirt in a bar
doesn't mean you are classy
not hardly
not by far.
Since you like to do groups
that much I now know
I won't post your name
but we learned your nature
and so
Funny thing is I miss you
So how fucked is that?
No human is irredeemable
or are they? In fact?
If you show'd at my door
with what would I greet?
Questions? Answers?
or just point the street...
Anger much?

Echos are all I hear (Lost Angeles)

You are still out there.

I've never seen you , never talked.
I dream of what could have been, what never was.
I see you in the faces and figures I watch;
in the passers by and folk unmet.
A liberal in a city of unconnected folk
a poet with bad lines
a musician who can't keep time.
Alas, my time has come and gone
I've chased an impossible dream.
Three years ago, I met you (I thought).
Turfed in Emergency's hallway, I reconsidered.
You were not the one I'm seeking,
in spite of the need, the desiring.
Just a figment of testosterone fueled hope.
Just another stain on the wall.

And yet...

One can hope.

or not.