She extinguishes the candles each night and holds me like she used to do. She breathes on my neck, whispers in my ear and strokes my spine to let me know everything is okay. And she rocks me to sleep before leaving in the dead of night, filling my mind with sweet dreams of her.
She holds my hand as I stand back and look upon my painting of her and I sense the smile of satisfaction on her face. I know she is pleased with this posthumous portrait, this late last sign of my love. And as I carve the poem into the frame she tenderly kisses my neck as she did when I first read it to her as the ink dried.
Her ghost comes to me because she is still alive. Her soul carries on and she is free to travel where she will and so she visits me when I need her most. When I am cold she wraps her arms around me. When I am sad she kisses my tears away. And when I feel the darkest despair she talks me away from the ledge.
Her ghost remains in our house and inhabits everything she touched, most of all me who she touched the most. Within me she lives on to soothe and carry me through so I do not decay or become the living dead. Because she loved me and would not want me to wilt. Because she doesn’t want me to live alone.
She holds my hand as I stand back and look upon my painting of her and I sense the smile of satisfaction on her face. I know she is pleased with this posthumous portrait, this late last sign of my love. And as I carve the poem into the frame she tenderly kisses my neck as she did when I first read it to her as the ink dried.
Her ghost comes to me because she is still alive. Her soul carries on and she is free to travel where she will and so she visits me when I need her most. When I am cold she wraps her arms around me. When I am sad she kisses my tears away. And when I feel the darkest despair she talks me away from the ledge.
Her ghost remains in our house and inhabits everything she touched, most of all me who she touched the most. Within me she lives on to soothe and carry me through so I do not decay or become the living dead. Because she loved me and would not want me to wilt. Because she doesn’t want me to live alone.
Note: This was inspired by the BBC Series, Desperate Romantics, the title being a quote from their version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
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