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A photograph,

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.