I don’t know you, but I know what you’re up to. I sleep in your secrets, wrapped in ribbons of your perfume. I’m a stranger in my own home, my own bed. You’re a ghost, a shade of a memory that rests between us, in the space that we once shared. You’re the line that he won’t cross, and I’m the intruder.
You’re tucked away in his pocket, the palm of his hand, the dip of his ear. You’re the salt on his lips, the foreign touch from his hands. I taste you in him, I feel you through him. You’re the hum that escapes his mouth when he breathes; you’re the one he sees past me.
I know that he avoids ‘we’, forgetting he’s a half. I’d try to be like you, if I knew who you were. Mimic your laugh, the tilt of your head, your words. Dress with garters under my skirt, and black lace under my blouse. I wonder how to twist myself to fit into your mold. You linger long past the whisper of flirtation; you’ve settled yourself into my life. No priest could exorcise you from my house, my life, or his.
I look for you everywhere. You’re haunting me, taunting me, laughing when I look over my shoulder. I know you’re there, I can feel you when I can no longer feel him.
I sleep in his secrets, bound by words he never says. He’s a stranger in his own home. He’s the ghost, a shade of a memory that rests between us, in the space we share. I’m the line that he won’t cross, and you’re the intruder.