Ghost Girl

I chase after her shadow,
hunt her down, try to find her once again,
but once I do, I walk right through her transparency.
I see her in dreams, her wide smile, her freckles
and awake in a cold sweat, grabbing a pencil to scribble down everything I remember
because the only times I can see her now are when I'm asleep.
She's a Scorpio; her mind can't be changed.
She isn't coming back,
so all I can do is helplessly imagine she's with me,
try to make up for all the
blank spots in my memory.
I knew her, briefly, and took advantage of it.
I had her, not the ghost version, but the real version--
with her real laugh and freckles and smile,
not the ones I try to create inside my head--
and didn't realize how much she would matter,
how much I would miss her when she left.
She doesn't know I wrote a list of all the things I love about her,
she couldn't possibly fathom all of my poems that she stars in.
She wasn't perfect,
but I'm not either,
and I'd give anything to see her again, just for a second.
All I can do now
is type her name into unforgiving search bars,
dig up memories of this summer,
try not to cry when I think of how
she's now a ghost,
and how she haunts me,
her warped form following me at every step
like how the stars follow the moon into the night sky.