Sleeping Away

She began slipping away from me—first an eyelash, then a strand of hair, first a word or phrase, then a plethora of sentences left unsaid, first a thought, then an island floating in the eye. Her silhouette evaded me like a forgotten name. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Nothing,” she answered, but my fingertip lost the curves of her body and then her body lost its curves. There were drawers left open, and clothes folded neatly that I had not folded. The traces of her scent vanished from the sheets and pillows, from the chairs and couches, from the clothing that hung in the closet. The ghosts of orchids hung their heads from the frozen pots. I heard her walking toward me. As shadows emptied into shadows, she returned to fix her hair in her mirror or smooth her face with cream. “I’m still here,” she said, “can’t you see?” But her breath faded from the mirror, and soon even that was gone.