A look, a glance, that smile.
So familiar, like memories of a dream,
That echo in bubbles,
Impossible to hold,
I knew her once, I am sure of it.
I know what she is thinking, at that very moment.
How she licked her lips just before,
How she worried about the-
Oh, it matters not now!
But she does not know me.
Nor would she want to.
For, I am the censure,
I am the lens with which only darkness is seen.
I am the white in the loosened strand of hair, in the night.
I am the ghost, yet to be met.