There were three of us on the blanket.
Me, him, and the ghost.
I was listening, he was telling jokes, and the ghost
was laughing. He had crystal injuries, pure as the
night air, and they tore indiscriminately through
the spidered web of our coming together.
The ghost came to him at night and drew him back
to times of terror. So waking and remembering became
the thing he feared most, and he preferred to spend
his time in either sleep or contemplation.
When the ghost touched him, he grew somber
and folded himself into cynical laughter that
burned with the pain. The pain stung his footsteps
and left him senseless.
In the beginning I saw only the laughter
and thought it magnificent. In the end I saw only
right through to the pain, and knew that the ghost
was, and always would be, his alone.