I could draw you a picture. I could, and you wouldn’t even know it’s there. It would follow you around, ghostlike, in an incessant reverence to your busy day. My picture would become a shifting presence to smile and admire, intrigued at the footsteps pacing fast along the sidewalk. I could draw you a picture, oh I do, I do. And it is with you. I wonder how frail and fragile this bond may be. Is it you? Is it me? Who made it? Who will break it? It is there though. I feel it as I see the picture I have drawn in hues of smokey blue. I drew you a picture and it was a picture of you. I was far far away, the ghost of words that penned the picture of you, accompanied by me.