Every time I talk about her I think “this might be the last time I ever talk about her” and a sense of foreboding overcomes me. It’s the same kind of excited tension you feel when you consider rope or broken glass. That fleeting, flickering “what if” of never agains. Am I all that keeps her alive? Would she disappear if I never spoke her name? What happens when I finally stop? She’s already a ghost. Faint outlines of a person who never really was. Still I try to breathe color into her cheeks and light into her eyes. With each failed attempt part of my soul is lost in aether. Soon I will be a ghost myself. Perhaps then, it will all make sense.