Ghosted

I know what it is like to live with a ghost,

a woman perfected by her absence.

The comparisons rarely do me any good.

We visit her grave, together.

I buy extravagant flowers to mark her passing

and listen to stories that exclude me.

I want her to ghost me.

And still she stays.

I cannot live up

to her elegance

(I know, I live with those photos)

to her generosity

(I mind the money I spend on her flowers)

to her selflessness.

How could I? She is a ghost.

I am not.

You want her to stay. 

You want.

She waits.

I think she will outlast me.

I think you think that, too.