He wants her to leave him; sometimes he begs her.

His new medication is not working, it makes him feel like ****,

he wakes up in the morning and can’t get out of bed,

the only side of the moon visible to him is the dark side,

he feels worthless, hopeless, a body full of puddles

and foreign dialect broken into choppy English.

He is finding that love is exhausting, almost physically draining,

like teetering on the edge of recovery after being home sick for two weeks.

On the nights when it gets so bad that he stands on the edge

of the roof and watches the city lights below call him home,

she stands behind him.

Not touching him, not holding on to his arm.

Not pulling him back from the edge.

Just standing there, her presence like a ghost,

the kind that haunts its owner gently, almost lovingly,

as if to let the haunted know they’ll never truly be alone.