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The windows swing back and forth like they’re in a playground
The door slides itself open, creaking loudly
The water crinkles next to my room
Yet the golden sun that kisses your temple is what haunts me. 
I am but a breeze that drifts across your face
A fly sitting by your cup of coffee
A drop of water on your palm

Even the ants that make their way to your plate are clearer than my sight.
The ghost is me, yet you do the haunting.
Who, then, is the ghost here?


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