You’ve been gone three years, and yet somehow, you’re still here.

The shape of your body lingers in corners, caught in glimpses out of the corner of my eye.

I see you kneeling for a goodnight kiss at our daughter’s bedside, catch your reflection in the mirror, the window, the glass of the microwave door.

At night, when I lie shivering in what was once our bed, but is now solely mine, is it your hands that pull the covers up, protecting me in a cocoon of cotton sheets and quilts as you once sheltered me in the curve of your body?

You seem so substantial in my dreams. We have conversations that never quite stick, though the feeling of having conversed often lingers for days.

Your touch is there, too. Your scent – cashews and spice. Surrounding me. Encompassing all that we were when you were here and alive.

“Find me,” you whisper in my ear after you kiss me. “Bring me home,” you urge.

I reach for you, wishing for the solid reassurance of your body.

And I wake. Alone. Bereft. Sad and angry and missing the reality we had, while your ghost slips through my fingers, like smoke.