A Ghost Abandons the Haunted

You ignore the way light filters through my cells, the way I have of fading out—still there is a constant tug, a stretching, what is left of me is coming loose. Soon, I will be only crumbs of popcorn, a blue ring in the tub, an empty toilet paper roll, black mold misted on old sponges, strands of hair woven into carpet, a warped door that won’t open, the soft spot in an avocado, celery, a pear, a metallic taste in the beer, a cold sore on your lip—and when I finally lose my hold you will hear a rustle and watch me spill grains of rice across the cracked tile.