Ghost

What am I to you?
Am I alone in caring,
behind a pane of one-way glass?
I can't see you.
I reach out
and the surface chills my fingers.

What was I to you?
Did you feel the same
warmth?
I thought you did—
perhaps I still do.
Maybe that's the problem.

What will I be to you?
Are you going to
come back,
with neat explanations
repeated
until they make sense?
Or will I become
months-old messages
you reread
alone in the dark?

What are you to me?
I rehearse
the words I would say
if you were to appear.
But time frosts the glass.
Soon
there may be nothing
but your own blurry face
reflected back.