Doorways

We both stand there in the kitchen. Her hair is soft. Her skin is warm. She's making coffee for me.

There's her little nervous laugh, and her arms folded as she waits for it to brew.

I still love her. I reach out to touch her, and it's nothing. My hand goes through her. I lean in quickly to snatch a kiss and it's pure air.

So I wait for her to disappear.

She won't. This is her table, her floor, her kitchen.

Now she's in the doorway, lacing up her boots. She's wearing the dress she's only worn on a few days, when it was hot out and she had the courage. She'll never go through that door.

So I cross it instead.

Fine, this ghost can have that place. But there's a boy in my bathroom. He's humming to himself and washing up. He doesn't notice me at all.

I shut the door.

But there's someone in the lamp, in the empty bottles, in the books. I try to shake them one by one. They do not move. They're speaking to eachother about me. Like I'm not even there. Like this isn't my damn house. A little whisper, then a giggle, a shuffling of feet. I may still love the girl in the kitchen, but not these.

I go down the hallway and look into a mirror. There I am, but now with no ghosts behind me. No girl, no boy, no whisperers. I had never thought about what that might look like.

I reach out to touch the reflection, looking into my own eyes. I slip and fall right through.