She fell down the stairs yesterday. Bruised her cheek. Bloodied her nose. All she did was smile up at me from her crash at the bottom.

I flickered the moth-crazed house lights, seeking help. She laughed, then.

I floated down, but my vaporous hands couldn’t hold her. No one can.

Brenna Boytim writes about ghosts, regrets, and reveries. You can find her on Twitter at @hi_thisisbrenna.