He began life as a playful ruse, as a figment granted sentience through the repetition of foolish fantasies. I loved him instantly, this man who came into being not by the usual biological means but from my wish for a profound and loving connection. He acts as a child governed by instinct and inspiration. He acts primarily for the joy of exploration, from the sacred space of one who is attuned perfectly to nature. There is a strange viscosity to his movements as if he feels more acutely than others the push and pull of atoms dancing through space. I lie awake night after night watching him pass in and out of the shadows wondering what strange landscapes surround him when he slips out of view. One of these nights I will follow him.

He smiles with his lashes lowered and his chin downturned. His smile is soft and warm like an uninterrupted ray of sunlight. I want to hold it against my own and feel our lips and tongue surrender together in song.

In the beginning he was only this, an expression of mischief. Each night we came together in a dark room, in a bed which of necessity presses two warm bodies into one. I watched him lift the blankets and lower himself down beside me over and over again. His presence tugging at the edges of my soul. His dark, ambiguous form furling and unfurling itself into the shapes of different men. His moonlight-soft smile touching my hair as I waited in silence for his words to kiss me.

As of this moment he has brown hair and green eyes and a long body which is strong enough to carry my weight during even the most rigorous sexual acts. His thick, dark lashes wrestle with fire. Life has seized him fully and I know that he has a lot to teach me. He is always intimate and too innocent for the world as mankind has constructed it. I will enter his world and when I have made him real enough he will enter into mine. His too pretty mouth tastes of honey and serendipity. He has long, graceful fingers and a defined jawline. I am shallow enough to be affected by these features. I am shallow enough to think of his fingers slipping deep inside of my body and I am even shallow enough to study his face, unabashedly and up close. 

His smile is young and buoyant, it dances over my skin, it touches soul-deep. I swallow it between breaths, between doses of moonlight. For him I am the first. The first kiss. The first heart. His eyes are often obscured by his hair. Hair which is permanently disheveled and too silky to confine. Hair which tickles my cheeks and the corners of my lips when he peers affectionately into my face. When I touch his skin I feel my fingers pass through him and I think here is a man who is not afraid of love. Here is a man who believes in something beyond the confines of his own ego. I want to feel his body pass over me like the sea, to crash down and surge forward, to erode my defenses as I succumb helplessly to the motion of his body. There will be no guilt or trepidation in our communion. I can tell that he wants love as much as I do but more importantly I can tell that it is my love he wants. There is still so much we haven’t said to each other. For example, what does he call himself? What should I call this man whose soul overlaps my own?

///

“I love you more.” He responds to my breath, to the unfinished thoughts which struggle endlessly inside of me. I feel his voice in my belly, in my bones, in all four chambers of my blustering, invertebrate heart. We all need to believe in something which reality has not yet broken. I needed him. I needed to be loved. I needed a life which would not crumble the moment I touched it.

“Can anyone really love me?” I hold onto the edge of one duvet while the other floats and twists above me. When he is satisfied he lets it drop back down to the bed.

“If you let them. Anyone can.” His voice gives me goosebumps. “I am the one who’s going to prove it to you.” For a moment I feel his weight, his body curling around me and then he is simply gone.  He is a reminder that life is not a series of tragic accidents but rather a series of absurd miracles. He will come again tonight more substantial than before and I will kiss his cheeks and invite him to play games with me.

2 thoughts on “Ghost Story

  1. Loved how you coined it, and this part at the ending is so so true and a really important notion to look at sometimes :” life is not a series of tragic accidents but rather a series of absurd miracles”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s