Dear ghost,
Doesn't matter the faint trust in a future of my desire. Or perhaps the raw taste of the dust that came with the wind. Nor the fact that summer seems to lull me to sleep. No matter the scorching sun, melting snow that never comes or the precious moon of my night, in the end, the smile still struggles to be genuine. I am sure your steps have delight in them. I am sure you are walking down the road that you have drawn before. Your consolation still exist and so shall you.
Yours even as I fear to be.