The sweet smell of summer salt, from the beach.

I would go there once a year, with only the most understanding of people.

The sunset crimson on the shutter blinds,

darkening the glittering rim where the sky met the sea, and the sea met the sand.

I wondered

what it would be like to be there alone,

without the laughter,

the cavernous warmth filling my stomach.

I was sure that I could still feel it there if I went on my own,

the way the bed still crawled with phantom hands,

the covers a burrow for the ghosts of those who slept alone,

who slept together,

who slept in a pile, a connection of friends taking refuge,

to stare up at the thunderstorm rain rolling off the skylights.

I just remember 

sitting on the couch . 

and your nails were being painted black,

by me,

little stubs cut to the quick. 

The room smelled like rubbing alcohol,

and rain,

it was raining. 

and it 

made me happy 

because for a moment 

I was living in a snapshot caught on film. 

this was how things 

were supposed to be. 

My wet hair 

soaked a puddle 

through the front 

of my tee shirt 

and yours. 

The distance from Mars to Venus and back again was between us

and yet

we were sitting side by side. 

You were there,  

and then you were gone…

only a ghost 

within my comforter.