In the morning, I leave my body and float to your house, a cool specter, a breeze traveling in a breeze down three streets to your little box snuggled against more boxes. Your curtains tremble and the dawnbeams struggle toward your face, because I have always brought the temperature of the room down upon entering. And you speak in your sleep. It’s cold, cold. No. It’s too cold. Go away. So your room and I sag woefully and your walls wilt and I float on, homeward, and close my eyes. I stretch my flesh back on and pull the sheets up closer to my face to escape the cold. Then I roll over and check the time on my magic voice machine, lately a quiet birdcage. And outside, a day stretches its way out of the tenebrous fibers of a night, like the emergence of a warm, wet egg. So phantoms may no longer roam. And somewhere, you wake up.