Secretly, the ghost of you is the ghost of me. We’re intrinsically linked, like the ocean to the shore or the shiny sun to the weeping moon, and you should know, that even after all this time, my thoughts are bound to you and you alone. They were born the moment I first set eyes on you, and although I emerged into the world many years before, it seems I only came alive when my gaze met yours. If I recall, it was on some sunless September afternoon like any other, down a corridor in a building within a town that’s been drowning ever since I can remember. How funny that from such mundane surroundings came a pivotal point in my life—one that’s never been replicated. One that never will. I never knew you when I was a kid, yet it feels like I did. It feels like I’ve been curled against your feet in this turning wheel forever. Since the beginning and until the end, I am at once a cigarette snuffed out in an old coffee tin and a flower pressed between the pages of Frankenstein. I never read you Frankenstein, and yet, there’s no sadness because somewhere out there, I did. Somewhere, in the mists of time, I’m right by your side, playing with the curls of your hair as we walk around the quarry observing the snow-covered fields stretching into the coming night. The night swallows all. It cradles us as we prepare for the long walk home, and although we’re tired and cold, and our feet are soaked to the bone, there will be a moment when we can become as warm as were before, back in the comforting waters of Mother Nature’s womb.