I come to this place day after day where your scent lingers. The lightening of spirit has stained with its glassy, sanded refrain. My translucent, heavy eyelids won’t veil their desperate gaze- twitched in tune in a pulsing pursuit which seems to tick out the outline, perimeter of a being. Its boundary a watery, dark space where vessels float with no flags, tables arranged for no sanction. I pull out the chair for my old ghost. He sits and says, “what may?”. A lyrical impatience births a sacred script; owned by Sorrow. The ghost closes its eyes softly in dismay, in disappointed states, for its job was not to provide passage or navigation.