The Ghost

I still love the woman I knew;
she is gone.

Or maybe—
she was never there at all.

My wife studied my heart,
learned the shape of my longing,
then stitched herself into it
like a costume.

For twenty-six years
she played the part
until the seams split open
and someone else stepped out.

Now, what do I do with that?

The woman I married still lives;
the woman I loved does not.

Or worse—
she never existed
outside my need to believe she did.

I have spent half my life
loving a ghost.

Will I ever learn
how to love someone real?