• firstdraftpoet 41w

    It is as I walk the dark alleyways by myself, for perhaps the hundredth time, that I hear you. You call out from somewhere in the shadows of the highrises, even the harsh streetlamps failing to illuminate you.
    One word. My name. Just the way no one else but you called me. With notes of desperation and the slightest bewilderment that I know only too well, even if I don't understand it.
    I search blindly for you, but the dark has hidden you too well in her folds. You seem to take pity on me, and leave the comforting cold black behind, stepping into the glare of the light.
    I see you, and I see everything that had once made you tangible to me. I feel that familiar need to be assured of your corporeality, a need that rises spontaneously, as everything has always been with us. I reach out, and my fingertips stop a hair's breadth away from your skin, a whisper away from the truth.
    The winds still, and time seems to lose meaning.

    ©firstdraftpoet

    The Eidolon. Project: Outtakes. Excerpts of stories that I may never write.
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    The winds still, and time seems to lose meaning.


    ©firstdraftpoet