This city has many ghosts. I’ve been called one myself, off and on, since I started walking the streets of Portland. Each cobblestone marred with gum and cigarette butts, each rooftop covered in bird shit, each wall covered in graffiti and hobo piss – they’re all markers for times come and gone, days passed. Down on the wharf, I see myself taking waltzing lessons from a girlfriend in the moonlight, both of us laughing while I’m too self-conscious to take the steps. Though I really could if I could just overtake that anxiety (because I’m an okay dancer) broiling inside me. She appreciates my effort. Unfortunately, that’s about the only time in that relationship I put any effort in. She was a nice girl.…