Ghosting the Living

Your face popped up beside a 'Follow' button,

a thumbnail shot from seven years ago.

You're eating something greasy, maybe mutton,

at that fair we used to visit in the snow.

I tried to think of why we stopped the talking,

but the inside jokes have all gone flat and dry.

It’s like a pair of boots too small for walking,

or a story that we both forgot to buy.

The pixels on your chin are soft and blurred,

I don't remember what we used to say.

I didn't even read a single word,

I just blinked and clicked the ghost away.