I feel like a shadow, peevishly following my corpse through the street.
I don’t have eyes to see you, my hand is a vapor to your touch,
But I sense you reach for me, and it is all too lovely, and it is all too much.
I feel so flat and earthbound in this dark, frail silhouette,
And I’m wary of your hunt within the boundaries of my printless tread.
I do not like this suit of dust, it is uncomfortable; I would go unfed.
But I sense your touch.
It is too lovely.