The wind blew through his hair, and through the whisper of
my body. When I died two years ago, I thought I would never
see him again. Instead, I wear pale things at night, and
walk about, motionless. He creates me, but doesn't see me,
whereas I see everything there is to see.

He once told me three things about obsession. First, that it
is madness. Second, that it is material, and can be
destroyed by normal means. Third, that it is cyclical, that
it comes and goes as the seasons do.

In the woods by his home, we walked in silence. He stopped
to watch a robin, and I sat on a dead tree to rest my feet.
The clouds moved in and out of the sun. To the west, to
where he dug a hole and ended our misery. But misery is
cyclical. It comes and goes as the seasons do.

Ghosts do not exist. Nontheless, we inhabit the autumnal
clearings of your mind. He clings to me again, to nothing.