She sits, pen in hand, waiting for the words to come. They always do. She closes her eyes and wills them to come forward, to reveal themselves. When they come, they flow like life's blood from her fingers, the pen scratching the words across paper the color of smooth sand.
The words move like rivers of rain across that page. Words meant to be heard, to be felt, words offered as a catalyst. Words sent shimmering through summer air searching for their destination, their target. Searching for the eyes that will read, the ears that will listen.
The words carry her imprint. The sugared vanilla scent of her, the deepest sea-blue of her eyes, the dark smoky grey of her voice. Finally, when the tide of words has ebbed, she closes her eyes again and waits. Waiting in silence for the words to find their intended and echo back to her. But this time, there is no echo. This time there is only the absence of sound. She understands that this time.....she writes to a ghost.