Your ghost boyfriend always leaves the seat up because he’s noncorporeal.
Your ghost boyfriend drifts through the back door, down the dark alley to the edge of the block to check if 7-Eleven has Coconut La Croix.
Your ghost boyfriend is sorry but he can’t take you to the airport tomorrow.
The last time you picked up, your ghost boyfriend told you to go ahead and buy a quarter but then he didn’t smoke any of it, and you smoked it all in the time you usually go through an eighth, and now you feel like a fucking drug addict.
Your ghost boyfriend died of typhus in 1909 in the bedroom where you now sleep. You love that this building is vintage.
Your ghost boyfriend says you can’t get a cat because cats sense the innate horror of his soul existing on the earth for ages eternal so they hiss and yowl and screech and also, he’s allergic.
When you listen to Lana Del Rey, your ghost boyfriend pretends he doesn’t like it, but then you catch him humming along.
Your ghost boyfriend really wants to visit your mom in Ann Arbor, but he can only travel a radius of four blocks from the place where his soul escaped his body.
On the hottest day of summer when your window unit breaks, you stand in the middle of the living room and your ghost boyfriend passes his spirit form through you again and again until you are chilled to the bone.
Your ghost boyfriend wishes you wouldn’t check your phone so much.
Your ghost boyfriend isn’t just saying that, he promises, he thinks that haircut really does suit you.
Your ghost boyfriend can no longer eat or drink or feel a cool breeze against his cheek, and he wants you to describe the heat, the texture, the precise weight of that Jack’s frozen pizza on your tongue.
Your ghost boyfriend got ectoplasm on the sheets again.
It’s your ghost boyfriend’s turn to choose, and he wants to listen to My Brother My Brother and Me instead of My Favorite Murder, because whenever you listen to that show you get too freaked out and you don’t sleep and you’re in a foul mood the next day. He actually says that word, foul, and it’s like why would he even say that?
Your ghost boyfriend doesn’t understand WiFi. When he was a kid, his favorite toy was a small wheeled wooden dog he pulled on a string.
Your ghost boyfriend thinks that yes, absolutely, your sister said that on purpose to hurt your feelings.
Cameras can’t capture your ghost boyfriend’s form, so every picture you take together just ends up as a selfie.
Your ghost boyfriend doesn’t know where you left the Blu Ray remote, and he doesn’t think it’s his responsibility to keep track.
Your ghost boyfriend thinks that if Becky from Payroll actually said that to you, then you need to document her emails and take it up with HR.
As you fall asleep, your ghost boyfriend whispers that death is like light from a river refracting on the undersides of leaves; and death is what a candle flame looks like just after it’s gone out; and that death is like the shapes a spider web makes, geometric planes of emptiness mapped out in the air, and he whispers to think about how if a single string breaks the whole thing loses its form.
Your ghost boyfriend misses his mom and dad and everyone else who’s died since 1909, which is a lot of people, but the good news is at least you never have to meet his friends.