the air that looks like his skin

he is a ghost, and he never stops talking about it. i listen, because that's what i do; i listen, and it's too hard to break the habit now. for years i've been working up into this: i don't have much to say, not unless i'm writing it down, but i can listen; talk to me and see.

those are no mixed messages, and he settled in with me for a long time. he talked. i listened. we made music and people photographed us standing together like that; the city got old and rusted and then the country got grey and faded. he talked, i listened. his eyes turned red-brown. his skin turned pale grey. i held onto my color in little snatches as it tried to escape but still made time to listen.

the buildings crumbled and turned to rubble, the trees burned down, the roads cracked and the sun set. he noticed it-- he said to me, 'look. the world is falling into destruction,' and i answered, like usual, with a well-placed nod. 'i am a ghost,' he said. puzzled. he was puzzled. i gave him one comforting hand, but it just slipped through the air that looked like his skin.

he went through cycles after that: resignation. terror. rage. bitterness. irony. amusement. some days he clung to me-- not with his hands; they had no substance. with his eyes and tongue and the air around him. other days, he pushed against me with his mind, telling me to go, telling me to go and leave him the hell alone. "why?" he asked, and only my eyes answered with suffering and foundering and no answer. that was what he needed. sometimes, he even comforted me. some days he was resigned and he took me in the arms of his eyes and told me that he would be okay and i didn't have to cry for him. some days he flung little black bones of wit on the ground before me, substance i could have touched but didn't dare to, and i listened only, staying out of his range.

he is a ghost, and i ventured to promise him that i'm okay with that. i am okay with that-- but, oh-- he never stops talking about it.