So there's this ghost I know. It's of the you that's gone. He sneaks into my bed at night and slips beneath the covers and holds my hand with his icy, not-quite-real hand and I can almost feel him next to me. It's like he's almost real, strumming his guitar and brushing my hair back, and in the pitch black of night, he could be a physical being. Except he isn't, I'm not sure if he's a ghost or a manifestation my mind made up because I can't accept the person I loved so wildly has become someone I don't understand, someone whom I can't even hold a conversation with anymore. I don't mind that he exists in my bed in the dark now, except in my half-awake half-dream state, I can almost smell him, almost feel him.

But he's not truly there. I am alone with something my mind made up, or maybe I share my bed with a ghost, a part of a person's soul who loved me so deeply it split from the rest of him so he could be by my side forever. I don't know. I don't care.