I spent half the day thinking of a time, almost forcing myself to call on a time, in which there was no you. I tried while I was walking. I decided to count my steps but in-between every beat there you were just as sure as the day that comes every morning. I ate cold cereal near the warm window in my apartment and conversations over the box came flooding through. Was there ever a time? In the shower while rinsing the conditioner from my hair I could almost feel your hands, ghost hands, on my shoulders. I find myself talking to someone that is never and possibly was never there all the time. The man at the bar asked me last night, “what kind of pretty girl reads in a bar?” And I said, “The kind of girl that keeps company with ghosts.” He thinks I am rude. I think I am smart.