Dear ghost,
Graced in black, my dear friend barely existed in the world. She has no loving nation, no cuffing job. It seems so romantic as if she is a Gypsy. But she grieved and grieved. I could only hide my ache. But my loving vagabond has no home. So we stalked the night and drank the air of the town she was dreadfully sick of.
In her black frizzy coat, for every forgetful touch of my hands, she unknowingly gave me light static electric shock.
My limbs are of no use to her except to walk with her. My stories are a mere distraction. My sarcasm, a passing amusement.
As we walked beneath a giant human creation, she said, "I would not care less if that fell on me."
"Me too."
"Now what makes you think so."
True, I had everything in place unlike her but you know what ailes me; it is a disease of a mind that thrives in sorrow. I sighed and said, " it's my mind that ruins me."
" True but look at me, you can see how mine shows in my body."
"True," and we laughed our night away.
Yours