Dear ghost,
I have no words to whisper. No tender to offer. As the smoke of your existence fade in my conscious, I doubt if you really breathe in the same planet as me. Your silhouettes are flickering and your perfume slowly cease to linger. They say I was dreaming of a man that does not walk on this earth. That I, a fairly decent maiden but never femme fatale, with all my facade can never catch a glimpse of you. So when I stare at those glass, I pretend to be in a movie to mask myself in the guise of those creature. I do wonder. Those creatures, as if crafted by the most skilled artisans, where must their esteem lie. Enticed by their god-like features, I picture them in a slow moving movie. I picture them as me. What good fortune have they gathered that they must so beautifully exist? Until the glass knocks me back to my existence. The odds, truths, pain and all that is married to me, they tell me every night, what I am engaged in, is a debauchery. That I have cheated on my existence. That I should be loyal to what I am. That I can never dislodge myself from what makes me. That I cannot unmake myself.
Yours even as I fear to be.