Tenant

I always knew you wouldn’t leave- even after you left your body.
After you became a wispy shadow, curling beside me in bed, prickling my skin with goosebumps. Your kisses made my lips turn cool and periwinkle. The first time it happened, you guided me to the bathroom, pointing as my lips slowly warmed, color spreading the way you used to sketch as an artist. Gradually, not all precisely.
I told you it would be fine, you said.
Only it wasn’t.
It became harder to ignore- your new ability to slip seamlessly through walls, into my dreams. As I dressed for work, you asked to come, explaining no one else would see you. That, really, it was terribly lonely to stay home in our apartment, when no one called you or thought about you anymore.
Candlelight dinner.
I dressed in the crimson cocktail dress you bought for me- even though it had a ridiculous flower and a too-deep sweetheart neckline. Filet mignon for you, sauteed tofu for me, two baked potatoes.
So there was no way you could convince me of being cheap.
Never mind that I still don’t know how the bills will get paid.
The food slipped right through you. You said it tasted good, but I knew you were lying. The way the corner of her shadow mouth twitched a little, how your smile was more like a smirk. I cranked the thermostat up, warmed hot tea, but the cold became unbearable.
What are you doing, you asked as I stood.
Just need a sweater.
For once, you did not follow me.
In our bedroom, I packed all of your collared shirts and striped ties feverishly. I was nearly done when you slipped in, when the air chilled from your presence.
What are you doing, you asked again. Steak sauce dribbled from your mouth.
You know what I’m doing.
There was a pause. You raised your translucent hand and I pictured a bruise blooming, pictured that night of the accident, how quickly it happened, how you kept saying how sorry you were, how you left with a strange brightness in your eyes, how the officers, later, told me what I knew- that I’d never know how much of you hit me that night, how much of you used alcohol as an excuse.
You’re still thinking of that, you said.
Your eyes darkened, until I could not see them at all. Shadows covered more and more of your body. Your lips were the last to go.
I’m sorry, you said.
Only this time, your words echoed, filled the room. I could hear nothing else. I ran over and opened every flimsy window I could find.
Moonlight streamed in.
And, at long last, you were gone.

***

Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, NiftyLit, Feb 2023).  Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, is available from Bottlecap Press.

Twitter: @erin_simmer