In Plain Sight by Jennifer FrenchYour Only Art by Genesis Siverio

Calls From A Stranger

Devon Roberts

I couldn’t talk for a while, so you decided we wouldn’t talk at all, so here I am talking to your ghost. You ghosted after I ghosted and we’re just two spirits waiting for a phone call—no explanation— wondering what it was we did (or said) to make each other feel so insubstantial.

And the future is full of wormholes— where you once existed, but reality doesn’t hold together well when people leave people to become shadows. Time rips open—no one else can see it, and I’m too imaginary to fill the gap.

The pieces of you I borrowed and the pieces of myself I gave fall from our discarnate forms like pocket change. The coins are rusted and have no faces. They phase through my ghosthands and slip between the cracks in the floor.

I’m lighter— the silence feels different now.