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.
are you still kind?
Do you search for me in strangers?
these things I need to know,
but will never be able to ask.