i don't want your company - i'm sure you don't want mine - it's rotten.

but you find this amusing? don't you.

still i avoid you - to the best of my ability. i'm good at hiding, though since you can float through walls it makes it tedious.

i'm curious.

why did you choose to stay behind?

you said you didn't - you liar.

diana what did you expect? i do my research.

ghosts - such as yourself now - are nothing but an imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth.

spirits only exist because they're afraid of death - though, on occasion, because they have a strong connection to the grounds upon which they perished.

i feel you aren't the latter - i know you too well.

at most you have your library - yes, yours - you made it adamant it be so.

ice slivers down my back - i shake - saying i myself am afraid of death makes it seem so trivial.

i won't become a ghost - i refuse.

few wizards choose such paths - so why did you?

you never came across as frightened of eternal sleep - you leaned more towards the insomnia life had to offer.

my room suddenly drops to a chill and the flames in the hearth twinge blue - i turn - you're there - staring.

eyes once a creme brown now shine grey-silver.

your old friend the moon resides in them now, i see.

what do you want?

you sit on my bed - the silk is undisturbed.

you look around - you've been in it before yet you look surprised. you sigh - lay down, i'm sure you have questions.

my book snaps shut and i'm sure you hear it screaming - you always hated how i treated them.

i had a careful hand in my opinion - but you love to nitpick.

as expected you glare and i smile

i have a few.

well spit it out.

unfinished business, i start and you roll your eyes.

seeing you like this is still off putting - the image of you in my mind is refusing to compute with how you're presented now.

you have no noise - no aura - no feeling, around you. people typically have something around them - anything. the pant of lungs - ruffle of clothes - scraping of skin.

with you, it's nothing but the echo of your voice.

i don't have any unfinished business.

you yank me from my mind and i bite my cheek, usually if you lie yours turn to bleeding pomegranate seeds.

but there's nothing.

fear, guilt, regret, and overt attachment to something - what is it?

you grin - like me - i don't like it.

why would i tell you?

why wouldn't you? it's not like it matters you're -

the word is left hanging in the air - you don't seem angry - so i say it.

dead.

you blink at the roaring blue inferno - does it usually do that?

you're not answering any of my questions, diana.

you never answer mine, thomas.

i light a cigarette - the spark of the match whispering touché.

you don't shrink back - oh right, you can't cough anymore.

there's some perks to being murdered, diana.

and stop calling me thomas, you know i hate it.

that's why i do.