Like a disembodied cloud spoils what’s left of a fall day, a ghost slips through the cracked closet when she closed the floor to a trapdoor—thick droplets of blood trickled the length of the rusty blade of a knife she gripped quite tight. An escape she makes through a route she’d well planned out. An out-of-control lane she downshifts changes as gears stick to the roof of her mouth—a phone that of her own plays his ringtone. Her nostrils flared and a bitter smile filtered through a brisk September skyline, tasting the divine with dead air.

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