In cloisters of mirth I dwell,
yet oft thy presence doth unmoor me
a wraith not malevolent,
but much too known.

Thine laughter, dulcet yet discordant,
doth cleave the hush I’ve grown to wear.
Thou art no tempest, nay,
but a hush that hollows
a mirror trimmed in thistle bloom.

Each fancy I dare cradle,
thou takest as thine own
not in theft,
but in eerie echo.
And lo, the echo bites.

I feign no ire,
yet my soul doth chafe,
like lace 'gainst skin long worn.
For how doth one abide
a kindred cast in shadow,
whose light dims thine without intent?

Amongst companions dear,
thy steps render me spectral
a ghost pressed ‘gainst glass,
yearning to belong,
yet unbidden to be seen.

I weep not from malice,
but from a sorrow ill-named
for no villain walks here,
only semblance too sharp
and closeness too cold.

So let me rest in quiet remove,
where my breath need not beg pardon,
and my joys may speak
without their echo
following too near.