The Spirit of Her Spirit

Her ghosts are everywhere.
On the bus there’s the ghost of her hair.
At the library I smell the ghost of her perfume.

It isn’t just that she left me. Or left us. It’s that she left herself.

She changed. She cut her hair. She changed the way she dressed, started wearing simpler clothes. Blacks, grays. She got a tattoo of a boat on her forearm. I missed her unmarked flesh. I missed her bright blue dresses.

I remember the last conversation we had.

I just don’t feel like talking anymore.

With me or in general?

In general, George. In general.

She used to call my answering machine when she knew I was away and sing silly songs into the tape. She would tell stories for hours when I couldn’t. She was my voice. Now I feel like a mute, haunted and alone.