She is looking up at the sky, with no intention or heart to her thoughts. The pale face of the sun throbs steadily into the air around her, rhythmic in its approach, yet not daring to touch her. There are no rays down on her. The sun does not touch the dead.

Her stare continues strongly into the light that hangs lazily above her. Her outline is that of a slightly wispy material, not definite. An air of uncertainty lingers around her.

She draws into her thoughts and dreams, and calls her beloved from her mind, and into her arms. The ghostly figure of a man, bow in his hands, comes to her, opaque, yet transparent at the same time. The embrace is unreal. She is in his arms. He in hers. They belong to each other. And they'll never be apart.

As the wind drifts towards the ghostly figure and the bowman, its invisible arms distort his form, and he disperses with the wind, an empty and emotionless tune left to ring in her ears.

Moving on. He is moving on. Yet by some surreal presence, they are still together and bound by their supernatural love. Never apart, yet always separated. This woman, she is not real on this earth.

The sun does not touch the dead.

Her unreal tears fall gently as one down her pale cheek. The skin has no feel to it. She does not notice her waters are flowing freely. She longs for her love to drain them away, subconsciously. Yet the two halves of her existence are fighting for parts of different things. In one life, the tears were noticed, and her bowman wiped them from her surface. In the other life, she and her tears went by unnoticed.

She cries aloud.

She knows the truth. Her love did not see her tears. Her life is this one, where she is invisible to her feelings and elements, and the only thing that ever came to her was the ghostly figure of her former love. The bowman. The hunter.

He was never a part of her tears. He did not wipe them away. She was standing here crying now because of that. The pearly drops rolled faster and faster down the ethereal skin, unchecked and rebellious to their former home of the woman's transparent eyes. Her hunter's non-existent shadow was reflected in every drop that fell to the floor and shattered, the life wasted and spent alone.

She cries aloud.

Her old ways and old days were still remembered by her alert mind. All the sins touched upon by her love still remained, unseen to the eye. She calls upon them now, and they flow back into her and seemingly halt her tears from escaping the hell of her body. The tears dry up her emotions.

And yet she still dreams.

He was there in her dreams that never ending day. She could almost feel the smoothness, the warmth of his touch, the caring gesture in his caress, the one that never even happened in her lifetime.

And yet she will still live on in this limbo in a dry desert place, destined to haunt forever, not alone, yet standing deserted all at the same time.

She questions her love, her mind producing her fears to him, asking him in her mind, repeating over and over again. Then she utters into the open, her voice dry and unused, a question to be carried away by the wind and into the ears of her hunter:

"Do you really want to be me?"

She will always be the ghost woman. Living on this earth was not for her. Yet she still feels alive somehow. Her hunter brought her to consciousness, whether they met or not. And he still exists in her embrace. She still exists in his sins. This tragic end to an ethereal love story that never happened in real time.

The sun does not touch the dead.

:: END ::