Ghosts

Sometimes, I almost hate you.

Because there used to be some things I enjoyed doing by myself. Going downtown. Trying to avoid the rain, yet delighting in the feeling of it beating against my face and running down my hair. Looking for a certain address, going in the tunnels, getting lost, taking time to stop at some little cafe. I liked that.

And now, I go downtown, and you're there – or actually not there. So the whole time I'm thinking: It would be so much more fun if you were here, too. We used to go in the tunnels and argue about what direction was right. You would have liked to do this or that; you always went to that store. Near here is where I bought my rollerblades – with you, because of you, and partly paid for by you – and this is where we had so much trouble finding the office for the newspaper. See that man with the funny hat? We would have laughed at that together.

For every thought, there's another thought to go with: Would have, but won't. Could have, but can't. Ghosts, meeting me around every corner. One minute I see you standing on the other side of the street and laughing, the next, I feel your arm around my shoulders, but as I reach out to touch it it's gone.

Stupid ghost, I mutter, stop making me cry.