goosebumps. like the ones you give me. like the only things you left as proof that we were real. goosebumps. the ones I got when you stroked my side with your thumb and it tickled but I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd stop. goosebumps. the ones I got when you raised your voice and threw plates across the room just to watch them shatter like my father used to. goosebumps. the ones you gave me when we'd sit in front of the fireplace with our blankets and hot chocolate on cold winter nights, taking turns exchanging ghost stories. goosebumps. the ones I got when I found out you'd become one of the ghosts from the stories we told. goosebumps. the ones I got when we lowered you into the ground because it had become too hard for you to breathe air anymore. goosebumps. the ones I got from the whispers saying I could've saved you but didn't. goosebumps. the ones I get when i feel you touch my arm when I sit in front of the fireplace alone (like I did during fights) and whisper, "I'm sorry," in my ear in the middle of the night (like you used to after fights), pretending it's your arm around me instead of your favorite blanket. goosebumps. the only things that remind me I'm real.