In the shadows, I linger, a hungry ghost among your audience to feed on your existence, to hear fragments of your thoughts without the need for my entreaties, to devour your words in the language my tongue can scarcely comprehend. These drops I swallow with slight indifference—matters that don't concern me; my starvation they cannot satiate. But it is the mask you wear, above all, that I find offensive. A parchment of yesterday, in my longing eyes, I struggle to digest. How dare you continue to assume the form of the rough sketch I made of you a year ago.. A portrait that once blazed with undying affection, on the 10th of August, ceased to burn. It all occurred at the break of dawn. Between my cries and pleas, I called your name, I choked for closure only for you to use my very tears to extinguish the flame. Callous! Merciless! That man is dead so how dare you still don the skin of the man I love forged by my hasty pen. To rip it off your face will satisfy the now itchy hands that crafted it. The lines of ink, fueled by my devotion, held the beautiful memories of the future I once envisioned with you, but your cruelty, instead of reality, painted delusion over this bright tomorrow. You do not deserve this token of admiration. How can you wear the memory of him—my love and my dreams—when the ashes of their essence are buried in my pain?
Yet here I still stand among the shadows.. My own anger and hatred betraying my conviction and sorrow. I say the fire is dead, gone, like a passionate heart that's been drained and daggered. Yet in spite all that, my feeble senses still choose to feel a lingering warmth from the remaining embers.
And just like yesterday, and the days before, I let myself burn from the ghost of the same flame.. over and over.