The keys you left behind 
still hang on a hook 
in the kitchen, but by now, 
sweet ghost, 
you have probably learned 
the art of passing through 
doors or solid walls. 


I’ve done nothing with them 
but a sense of habit and 
familiarity seems useful. 

Helpful, even.

Last night I reached out in bed 
thinking I'd find the outline of
your body next to me, a soft 
depression left in the mattress.


The flatness of the fitted sheet
dispelled that notion.

I did catch a whiff of a scent 
not unlike the one you used, 
but I could have been dreaming.

Still, it seemed to linger through 
the night and was still there this 
morning, soft, citrus, with a slight 
acid note—at least, I thought 
it might have been.


I watered the plant you forgot, 
then I remembered—you never 
forgot anything.


I feel tired—haven’t been sleeping well.
I wanted to go out but it was raining and 
you took the umbrella when you left.

The weather was clear, but you knew it
would rain. 
Eventually.