I first became aware of his existence when he handed me a napkin
with the sentence Normally I like to be alone,
but I’d rather be alone with you. He was always leaving in the middle
of the night without explaining why, and would come home
in a sweat hours later, after running until his lungs burst
just so he could get out of his skin for awhile.
Sometimes it came in waves;
other times it came in the form of a tsunami.
No one ever told me how hard it would be to ride that sea
without a lifeboat.
He wants me to leave him; sometimes he begs me.
His new medication is not working, it makes him feel like shit,
he wakes up in the morning and can’t get out of bed,
the only side of the moon visible to him is the dark side,
he feels worthless, hopeless, a body full of puddles
and foreign dialect broken into choppy English.
This is not his first language.
He will never know how to pronounce every word perfectly;
nor will he ever be able to translate them.
On the nights when it gets so bad that he stands on the edge
of the roof and watches the city lights below call him home,
I stand behind him.
Not touching him, not holding on to his arm.
Not pulling him back from the edge.
Just standing there, my presence like a ghost,
the kind that haunts its owner gently, almost lovingly,
as if to let the haunted know they’ll never truly be alone.