I thought ghosts were supposed to be transparent, but there you are every morning, a silhouette in the corridor, my cookie-cutter specter.

Waiting for me to thank you. 

You wear the golden hour like you made it yourself.  Letting the sunlight be angel’s wings, hoping that the window behind you is close enough to a halo.

The model of a daytime deity.

I struggle to be grateful.  You will always be here tomorrow, promising a new start in the shadow of the window, but I do not get out of bed every day to see you.

You’re just blocking the sunrise.