He’s got eyes that pop out of his head as if he's just seen a ghost. His hands are brittle and his finger nails are yellow. His skin is pale; his heart is pale. Every time we’re alone in a room together you can almost see the silence. It looks stiff, like the way that his body shifts away from me to avoid the awkward conversation or how our breath is being used to fill the silence. We look at each other hard and long. Almost as if we're connected through the matter between us and what used to matter between us. I wonder if he remembers how my body feels. I wonder if her body feels like mine.

His shoes are stained from the salt on the road and I can tell that he’s been walking over rusted wounds. I wonder if he's fixed the dent I made in his car. I wonder if his apartment is still the same desaturated shade of blue that made his eyes look grey. I wonder if he still lives on memory lane. We watch the snow fall from the corners of our eyes, being careful not to look up; being careful not to touch. I hear him mutter something under his breath and I’m not sure if he’s describing the weather or if he’s describing me. I was never quite sure of what he was saying. He was always hard to decipher. There was always a sense of mystery surrounding him that was too hard to unravel. 

I fiddle with my ring as I try to imagine what she looks like. If her hair is as black as mine or if her skin glows the same way. There’s a part of my mind that wishes she’s the lesser version of me. I wonder if he’s told her about me. I wonder if she knows that he is my ghost.