August

(Golden Hour Ghost) They never tell you death feels like waiting in a room where the door is right there, but you don’t have hands anymore. That you still want. Still reach for warmth you can’t feel. I thought dying would be the hard part. It wasn’t. The hard part is the sun. It keeps rising like nothing changed. Slanting through windows at that perfect angle—the same light that was on your face the day I realized I loved you. You were in my car. Coffee going cold. Talking about nothing. Then you turned your head. The sun hit you. You smiled. And I knew. This is it. Then the thought came: You’re going to die without ever saying it. I drove to the flower shop. Sunflowers—you said they looked happy, like they refused to be anything else. I put them in the passenger seat and texted you. Can I come by? You said yes. I was three minutes away. I was smiling. I don’t remember the crash. Just sunflowers flying and one thought: No. Not now. I was almost there. Then nothing. Then this. This in-between where I become almost visible and tangible only in that dying sunlight. Close enough to see you breathe, never close enough to touch. You cried at my funeral. Called me your best friend. You don’t know about the sunflowers. You don’t know my last thought was your smile. I can’t leave. I’m tethered to you, like flowers to light. Sometimes you shiver. You don’t know it’s me. Until today.