He Hates Her Phantom Ways

He left in the spring because he'd always been one for grandeur and he knew she'd look to her garden for company and besides, he'd never really liked the way she always smelled of dirt and lost souls.  She had wild-piano hands and turquoise-glitter eyes and sometimes, her long ivory tresses tangled over his cheeks in some semblance of Iloveyou at midnight but it always left him gasping, the weight of her touch.  It always burned.  Her name was Ingrid, his on-the-side Indian girl, and she was more phantom than flesh, her smiles almost translucent under the twilight-twinged sky.  Mostly, he left in the spring because that's when the wolves howled the loudest and he feared the ways Ingrid's eyes became haunted by the full moon and he hated the way he always looked to the dreamcatcher on her wall to save him, save her, just let them rest peacefully for once.

Ingrid was smoke in his lungs and vanilla on his tongue and he loved the way she screamed for him late at night, a nerve-rattling yowl of desire, but he loathed the love she gave him under moons rimmed with blood.  He had scars down his back from her nails and sometimes, she'd bite hard enough to draw blood and she always apologized later, a quick I'msorry, I'msorry, itwon'thappenagain...but it always did.  She was animalistic and possessive and raw and sometimes, when he glanced her way, he could almost see her fading into the night.  

Like a ghost.  Like a ghoul.

But he loved her.  Oh, how he loved her during the rest of the month and he'd fall to his knees after every fight and begherbegherbegher to stay.  Please, just stay, and he followed her into the forest, her long cherry-nails beckoning, begging, beckoning more for him to let her lead him astray.  

Into madness, into peace.  

And he left in the spring and left her far behind and she swore to reporters, frantic-eyed and white-knuckled, that she sat up until midnight for weeks on end waiting for him to come home, knowing he had to come home because his closet was still full and his wallet was still on the counter and his voice was still on her answering machine telling her he'd be there soon, soon, soon.  It was dated the day he disappeared, and she never heard from him again, but sometimes, when the moon was just close to bursting and the garden was filled with her time and her tears, she promised them she could almost hear his voice on the wind.  She could almost hear him calling for home.

And they never dared to ask her what was under the roses or why there was dirt on her cheeks when they found her in a heap on the porch early that day, but they never questioned her again.  She was too transparent beneath the lights of their cameras, they claimed.

Like a phantom come back from the grave.