Penciled names and utter dark

I saw your ghost today on the 7 train.

It was as if time and space had rearranged to age you 20 years and place you in front of me.

You were standing there, wearing your faded gray jacket and your trademark jeans. You were holding two shopping bags from stores that I couldn't discern, and you looked haggard and withdrawn. Your face was a study in cynicism, your eyes a betrayal of youth.

It was mesmerizing. It was all I could do to not stare. By the time I disembarked and transferred to the D train, I was shaken but still composed. But as soon as I sat down, your ghost sat down across from me, your bags placed neatly between your feet.

And there it was again as I transferred to the A train. And again to the F train.

Now I was convinced I was insane. I fished out my phone to sneak a picture of the ghost, just so I could look at it later and convince myself it wasn't you. Even as I took the picture, I found myself staring into the screen, entranced by the resemblance.

When I reached my destination, I strode out of the train and up the stairs with an urgency that surprised me. I made it halfway down a long, barren, white tile hallway before looking back, just to see if the ghost was behind me.

There was no one.

Now, hours later, I look at the picture I took on my phone. It's too blurry for me to make out specific facial features, but I am just as speechless.

I may never know if you were actually ever in Manhattan and making your way to Brooklyn on this brisk May evening... but I know I still miss you.