Parasocial Relationship: What Remains Is the Latch

I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open— chalked in wax traced from your last reply, the one you coughed out sideways between a mirror and an echo, Just to reiterate, it read. (Though you’ve unsent it now— the smoke still mouths it back.) The salt forgets which door to guard, whether you're enemy or friend. My tea leaves knot themselves into nooses. The knife won’t keep its edge unless I say your name with my mouth full of soot. You know who you are. We only spoke three times— I still remember your laugh. I burned your coat— the one already nicked at the cuff, lined with lint and one of my hours. The smoke limped east, then circled back. I still leave the latch loose. Not for you— just in case some ghost with your gait remembers how my spine once knocked like a drum left running.