I beg for the touch of a ghost 

The parched throat of wind

His hands command me

Like a puppet

The breath of his sleep

Awakes my pulse

I hear the ghost whisper tirades

And wonder if they 

Would someday be directed at me

My haunting leaves me 

A winter morning 

Frozen snow, with dead trees

His warmth

Is all I have in the wake

Of my hypothermia