text: After I killed my boyfriend, I put his body in the basement, where he vanished into the stone walls and transformed into a shadow. He surprises me, even in death. I’ve awoken many nights to see him standing above me. He stares at me with glassy lidless eyes, and I can tell he wants to kill me. But apparitions can’t do anything. They bloom onto the walls like flowers and walk into light, begging to be seen. It’s never enough, but it’s all they have left. It’s all he has ever deserved. “It’s not too bad,” I say to his silhouette. “At least you’re never alone.” I am not alone, either. Finally, he entirely belongs to me. This is our forever. Killing him was a kindness. Many would call it fate. I did what was needed to save him. I did it because of how much I love him. He knows I love him so much. There is golden light streaming through the hallways. I dance in it. I press my fingers to the walls and caress the outline of him. I fit myself into his shape and imagine him wrapping himself around me. I rarely turn off the lights. I have gotten rid of all the curtains. I love him the most when it is night. When the moon is exceptionally bright, I click the lamps off, and I follow him around the house. I laugh at his frenetic movement, and I am awed by the shapes he turns into. He is quite the contortionist. He sculpts himself into the most surreal forms. I marvel at his creativity. Yes, he’s dead, but his imagination persists. It has been years since his transformation, decades. All that’s left of him in the basement are shards of bone and wisps of hair. Time has embedded them into crevices. They bore the fruit of what he has become. I am an old woman now. I’ve witnessed many sunrises and worshipped every phase of the moon. It’s become difficult for me to dance with him. My joints are too stiff and my eyesight has faded. Sometimes I do nothing but lie in bed and gaze up at the ceiling. He comes without my asking. He reaches for me. His arms are as long as snakes, and they crackle and hiss like fire. He hangs from the ceiling, sputtering into existence like static. He becomes more than just a shade. I don’t know when he started emerging from the confines of the surface, and it doesn’t matter. It’s ending. This tangible version of me is dying, but I am not afraid. I know he can close the distance between us. He can touch me as I have had him for many years. He needs me as much as I have always needed him, and now he welcomes me to the other side. I don’t have any regrets. I am glad I killed him. I cannot wait to adorn this space with him and dance in the light.