I returned from my disgustingly sober existence in the echo of a death knell to visit you and see how you’d grown. Cross-coil visitation is still imperfect, naturally (or, should I say, supernaturally). My appearance, or my presence, appeared at 10:44 PM as you stood bundled in three sweaters in your disgusting kitchen. 

Cherry tomatoes
Cheddar cheese, sliced
Salt, pepper
Mustard, mayo
Whole-wheat bread

Your knife was dirty and your supplies lined the counter without any order. You noticed the crumbs at your feet and the trash spilling from the bins to your right. You sliced the mushrooms unevenly. The tomatoes were halved more precisely. You were alone.

At least, you thought you were.

A perk of being a ghost is that I can see what you can’t. And I saw her there. She, cold as you, leaning into the nape of your neck, the nave of your chest, and breathing steadily. You could not see this. But this presence, unlike my own, you could definitely feel. Your hands

less nimble
than before.

And she, in forest green,

balled her soft
delicate fingers
into sleeves
and leaned
into all of you-

You, there, making
your sandwich at
a quarter to eleven
wishing miles
meant mists
with a chin on
your shoulder
whenever you
feel alone or
too quickly
growing older. 

I know how the kitchen can be at night. With your limited groceries. Your limited patience (though it grows). I could see you smiling into each breath. The cheddar feels right in its square slice. And you no longer need me, no longer need drink, no Christmas patio explosions in somber cold, no longer need to divide yourself into characters to rabbit punch into aesthetically accurate monsters; bloody, pulped brightly. And there I left you. You making a sandwich and feeling everything; all.