The ghost of Her

It’s always the start that scares me .The first letter. The first thought, the first breath.

The way it feels like the certain gasp before the desperate jump off a cliff.

It feels odd, new, fresh, catchy … Every time I look away to find her. And in a huge envy for artists, I try to copy them, stealing their ecstasy, fixing her in traits and shades of wonder. It’s always similar to a new birth, seeing her. It’s brilliantly shimmering in a dark profound way. Her eyes.

I could spare my own life dedicating it for their sake, the brown obduracy, the shouting hush in them. You can’t hear anything of the outside; you’ll only be left to face your mad heart beats. Falling in your own liquid thoughts, bringing up a spring when trees leave their roots for the shelter of her existence. What’s a cliff like before the huge towers of her neck? Towers only wasted heroes in the past empires could describe. What’s a sacred river before the droplets of sweat? Only peace seekers believe how holy the skin can be. She’s the providence I can’t escape. She’s the righteous sin I was born to carry out. And some time after midnight that desire strikes in my veins so violently,  I fly, I don’t remember I closed my eyes, nor do I remember I left my bed. I feel so weightless as I, driven by the left pieces of her scent in mind, visit the temples in her curves. Every curve has a story. Every story had once a start but was left for the wind to craft it’s end. Every end would lead to a new kind of art, a new paper and a new desire to melt in her. The amalgam of poetic moves she draws is just alluring. Yet, I’ll have you know your ritual bereavement will only start when you can no longer witness it. �" dear former soul of mine, wait till she drugs you with her touch. Then you’ll feel the venom of yearning for her runs inside you, burns of impatience like devils wish to dance before the fire. You will be blissfully a victim, pleasurably a slave as it goes darker .You hear something so calm and delicious flirting with your ear and your hair, you hear a melody, you hear thirst…

She wants to own you when the world pleads for her to own them. You are soundless, thoughtless, and defenseless while she crosses your silky walls seeking truth. She sways the balanced rules you long vowed to follow and she gets in your corners. You are nothing but a naked book with no title. You are revealed to the ghosts of her solitude. The satisfaction you oft times craved was stolen and you spoke no words! She took your soul, your aching corpse, your vanished sighs ;She took all of you and then took off. The noise of your trembling window drives your sanity back as you barely open your eyes spreading your hand over your warm sheets .You know you had her, you felt it so real to the point you suffered from joy. Tonight will be the night she digs inside my skin, after you. Pray I’d never wake up, for I will not abide facing the fact she left... 

Author's Note

I need your opinions.
It's my first one.

Reviews

[J. K. Beach]

Nice work! I love the swirling images and the flow of this... It could almost be worked into a long poem, maybe multiple stanzas. A story is almost too tight a garment for the concept. In any event, she's an exciting ride regardless of the clothes she wears.

[Mélania Woolf]

Thank you ! I was actually confused what to call this ...
It's a pleasure to read your comment , thanks again.

[Andrew]

I like it a lot it show a lot of compassion for some one so important. I like the details you used they are very descriptive and strong it feel like the person Is basically putting me in a trance just reading.

[Mélania Woolf]

Thank you so much ! I'm glad you liked it.

[Andrew]

I will be sure to keep up with your new pieces of work when I can.

[Mélania Woolf]

Wow that's really nice ! I'll be doing the same thing ^__^