I guess things are never as they seem. I guess I wasn't the person you thought I'd be. Perhaps if we'd met two years prior and more quiet. But luck was never on our side and maybe I should act more grateful for your life.
You're not a ghost yet but you are haunted by the memories of your past selves, desperately longing to come home again. I -- I am the ghost, the shadow, the linger of cardamon and orange peel. I am infinitely small in your tower build of snowfall, where my needs were met crestfallen. And I was always too late, too self-contained where selflessness was imperative.
I couldn't see your pain because I was harboring so much of it myself. I forgot my life.. I forgot to write because of months spent sleep-deprived. You where there too, your skin all ash and white. You were my angel come morning light.