Dear ghost,
In the morning when you pick up your tears, I might be quarreling for the stars. Frightfully, I could be on the edge of imagination, or drying up like a wilted leaves. But those do not belong in here. In here, I drained all the green in me, and I await for the brown to pass by. I cannot sway through life. I have tap danced the pain away. I have sung the joy aloud. Each line whimpered with your name, and you too wrote a poem for us. But last summer, when you forgot to touch my soul, I closed the door to your soul. I do not need you to bare your soul to me, if you cannot reach mine.
Yours even as I fear to be