Ghosts Need Apertures

Oh my soul, you breeze between
Two open windows, neither
Belonging nor remaining
Inside, but here passing through
Nonetheless, I like to think
Of you as neither body
Nor self, nor idea of soul,

But as a small conundrum,
Definition made of nerves
Communicating wryly
In a way not all nerves can.
You carry the water sound
Of the creek and the pathos
Of what sails but doesn't feel.