On the couch next to her, in a thoughtful lull,

(Her eyes—brown, warm: they were like that, indeed,

But amplified by an amiable lens:

Or friendship, that unexamined window

Which I feared to dirty with greasy doubts sown

In a dream of opposite things from

What is.) I suppose I looked far away. She

Asked me: What are you thinking of? I

Thought some and then said: What if I were just a

Ghost? What proof do you have that I am real?

Well what proof have you? Perhaps I’m a ghost too.

It’s Funny, I said. What, said she. I only thought…

Are not ghosts supposed to be see-through?