"True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen."
Francois de La Rochefoucauld
He had forgotten what warmth was. The sweet nectar had eluded him for years now; despite his futile attempts of capturing even the tiniest shred of warmth beneath his fragile fingertips, it never found him. His memory had served him well for a little while, but in the absence of such a careless gift, one's mind is quick to go. So, he had forgotten, and never would he remember. It was one of the many sacrifices he had made.
He had forgotten warmth, allowed the recollection to rot and eventually erode, carried away by imaginary fingers of wind. Cold, though, was a different story. He knew well what cold was, the biting cold that made the air crackle and snap with electricity, and caused something deep and evil within his bones to arise, cause him more grief than he could imagine. The cold resided within him now, hollowing him out and even glazing over his eyes. Once, they held the world and mirrored the sky, a bright canvas proffering happy reflections. He could feel the ice on his fingers, the quicksilver collecting in his veins like biting heroin shot up by an avid addict. It paled his flesh, once supple and healthy now pallid and startling. The cold was eerie and uncomfortable; its silence, the way it fell like unnerving little snowflakes churned from vicious clouds and forged by an angry God, was enough to deafen and disturb. Oh yes, he knew what cold was; he lived in it everyday. And, a frozen soul is a dead soul.
Desolation was also his company; it had replaced almost everything else. Happy memories had been stained black, the edges ripped and frayed, bespeckled with grief. And grief is pain glorified. So, he trudged through the pain for nothing but to keep his existence alive. Seconds turn to weeks when grief is your master, and he'd been dead for milleniums it seemed.
He had forgotten many things, but he hadn't forgotten her.
She was his reason for remaining attached to a cruel and barren world; one that plagued him with memories at every goddamn crossroad. At night, he'd lean over her bed, where she lay curled in cotton sheets her golden corkscrew curls askew over angelic expressions contained by a pretty little heart-shaped frame. Her eyelids would flutter gently, spiderwebbed eyelashes gently brushing against soft and high cheekbones, as he traced her pouty rose petal lips with his icey fingertips and drew ragged breath from her, breath that steamed from between her lips and twisted in the air, fine fingers of silver smoke that would brush against his undeath and slice into his soul, a torturous reminder of the life he had happily endured and lost.
Sometimes, he'd put his intangible lips to her forehead and rejoice as the warmth swarmed beneath them.
He imagined that if she were to wake, and for once second her breath would be wasted on a shocked and terrified gasp, he would shatter into a million fragmented pieces. Maybe that would be for the better.
Someone had once asked him what true love was. He had responded heartily that true love was loving someone so much you'd die for them in an instant.
He knew now that that was wrong; there was something highly wrong with his answer. And after a few years of death, of purgatory, he had yet to figure it out.
True love was the ability to leave after death, to never haunt those you wish to cling to in desparity. What he did, was selfish, a sick sort of cruelty. The afterlife has no revelations, has no meaning, and it has no ounce of kindliness; selfishness forges selfishness, though. Perhaps that's where he drew his own bitter love for speculating lovers as they slept, dreamscapes painted by visions of those lost to them.
The night casts wicked shadows. And he was one of them.
not something i was too keen on posting. i hope someone likes it, though.
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