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There's a version of him that only exists between the lines of what is known and unknown.
He thinks its the only version of himself that exists anymore.
It waits in train cars, dance halls, on the side of the docks, in foxholes and tree lines. Always blurry, foggy, rippling like a mirage.
He had a name once. He may still exist when it's spoken.
He imagines his ghost haunting his grave site, flowers and American flags covering the marble headstone. There's too many, he can't read the engraving.
It exists in pencil drawings and piano keys.
He's already dead.