Notes on the Existence of Ghosts


When my boyfriend’s mother called to tell me he was dead, I was standing in a CVS, holding a bag of Halloween candy. For a long time, I could only write about him in metaphor. Lucky for me, the world is full of ghosts.



Leaves stained onto the sidewalk from yesterday’s storm create gray-green watermarks on the pavement, like the negatives of pressed flowers— the ghost of a letterpress still whispering up from the page. A sidewalk is a deeply haunted thing.


I understand the gravity of a train from the empty space and warm afterbirth air of recent loss which I encounter when I run down to the platform thirty seconds too late. It is the same with all things of such weight, to understand them best when you have just missed them.


Snow angels, being beautiful because of the power of an outline to name an absence holy. Being a finger pointing to the inherent fiction of angels and therefore haunting.


If the stars have, as they say, been dead for millions of years by the time their light reaches us, then it follows that my retinas are a truer thing to call sky.


Dove collides into window, leaving a white dandery imprint of its body, wings flecked out, etched into crucifixion— a crime scene outline to say he was here.


Take this, the dust of me,
and remember the way my body was round and would not move through glass.

If nothing else, remember the ghosts I leave behind.