Before Words

This poem, that is not mine, hovers like a ghost.
Only when I close my eyes do I remember
she is near, waiting.
I am busy. I am tired.
I am immersed in doing,
silent, a growing ache expanding in my torso,
“Write me, free me, see me, I am real. The rest of your thoughts are a  shadow stretching out from my magnificent form.”
I am patient, but she is closer every hour, breathing on my neck, insistent.
Soon sister, soon.