By Isabella Kaufman

How is it possible to
be in love with a ghost?

How do you reconcile with
a version of someone
that no longer exists?

You are there, and I am here.
Except you are not there, not anymore. Not really.
I know this, and yet here I am:
writing poems to you and stuffing them
into my mouth like you’ll read them from inside of me.

Here I am:
opening your bedroom door,
sitting across from you at the breakfast table,
undressing in the back of your jeep, on a beach.

I can remember everything except for your face.
I can remember everything but the sound of your voice.
You, a blurry brushstroke of ivory in all my favorite photos.
You, the wound that never heals.

Tell me,
are you still kind?
Do you search for me in strangers?

Tell me,
these things I need to know,
but will never be able to ask.