The future without me you seem to be hunting

Or maybe inside you would rather be hurting

Maybe it’s just a hand and you’re bluffing

For numbers and games seem to cost you nothing

Everything you write keeps your “other friend” blurting

Everything you do her opinion is asserting

(And if I do the same you’ll hit the delete button)

My ghost that you seek will shortly be coming

© Delia Ross. 2019