She is here with me now
I fear no longer
Pale skin shimmering in the moonlight
and my breathing comes in short gasps
The scent of her hair lingers in my nose
Desperately I hold onto it, let it permeate my lungs
and marinate in my soul knowing it will be gone with the very next breath
Her eyes pierce through the frail flesh of my body and into my even more fragile soul which screams
I should tell you I should tell you I -- I should tell you I have always. . .
but your eyes break the contact with mine before
my soul can finish and bring these words from my heart to my lips.
Lips which desire nothing greater than to intertwine with your own, to loose the tempest within if only for but a moment,
to drink of your soul and be sated for a time.
The words from your lips flow into my ears and I hang on each syllable as if it is the very last. . . because someday, it will be.
I don't like the word soul. It's the right word, but the wrong sound, I considered animus but really that's just too many syllables to be seriously considered. God the word soul is cliche, there needs to be a better term, or I need to think harder to find it.