Dear ghost,
It breeds in me; my mellow dreams of you and the gentle adoration.
Shoveling the snow of my conscious to unearth the silver snake hibernating. She is still waiting for the summer. In her slumber, the summer has still not touched her.
Write to me about the colored texture of your skin. About every pattern imprinted in the membrane of your cells. I heard that those stained glass in your shrine exhales in you.
They say it is blasphemous the way you have fallen from that towering garden.
But you can shed your skin so sleep my love.
Yours