And always, always, in the corner of my vision.

And always and ever gone just as I turn to meet you.

A phantom of sight, dogging my course like a star, hiding in the sunlight and present in the shadows.

I reach out and steady myself against a wall, against a table, against the desk. I lean forward and press my head against the window, press my hand beside my face, watch the first few flakes of snow fall glittering and unreal in the darkness, catching the light of the streetlamp as the light of the streetlamp catches your face.

Half there, then gone. A phantom.

My hand cool against the glass. Then the glass cool against my back, my hand cool against my throat, my eyes closed against the sight, the impossible never there sight of you. The ache of loss and longing. The tantalizing thought of you always there, always shadowed, always limned in the light of the streetlamp in the falling snow.