The restaurant had been vacant for years,
and I walked by it every day
when I headed to campus.
The spider web curtains fluttered
each time I stepped near
and I knew it was your ghost.
You lingered in the second booth
with a malt glass full of our memories.
I felt your smile press into my back
as I walked by.
You had left school after the first year
when you had perfected a failing grade point average
and your father had shipped you
boxes instead of books.
We had dated for the last two weeks
but had hung out all year
in the second booth of the restaurant.
Our kiss was your last hurrah
before you moved home
then became a ghost
tucked in random emails
and loose photos pinned to my wall.
I kept waiting for them
to tear down the building.