Knowing the Shadow

Posted: August 20, 2011 by zacharyandgillian in August

The shadow has stern lips.

A kiss from those lips is both treasure and travesty.  For in the sweet seduction of an evening serenade there is a sadistic self-exclusion.  And she is exceedingly efficient in those ministrations.  Her lips extract her pleasures meticulously.

At first, it seems as though she promises nothing and implies everything.  A passer-by is wooed into becoming a lover by the exceptional cool amongst her poise.  She does not dance.  Nor sing.  Nor laugh.  Nor embrace.  She merely is, and she bears a chill that is neither comfortable nor cold.  But she feels reminiscent of something that one might have wrapped themselves in, once upon a time.

She has no soul.  She presents no eyes to gaze into; a journey to discover her character is an endless and fruitless thing.  Unlike the Abyss, she does not proffer an endless evaporation of her lover’s efforts, and reciprocates no twisting of the seduced.  She is merely a candle flame in the wind: out.  Through such a condition she consumes offerings of spirit meaninglessly.  Almost as an inconvenience to her existence.

Her nose rejects the claims of mortal men.  They have no dominion over her.  It is only here that she can be said to have any viewable personality.  It is in her sense of scent that she provides haughty certainty:  That she is all at once desirable and unavailable.  To grasp at her is to attempt to redeem claims never made.  One cannot own the air she exists in, as surely as she herself cannot be owned.  But both smell sweet with promise.

Her skin is a dream’s love.  Untouchable, it is the pale of non-existence itself.  It conjures an image in ever mind that will never know it.  It is singlehandedly the most hypocritical of the shadow’s features.  For nothing has more presence within a lover’s mind than the tender skin it wishes to caress.  And yet, nothing is less tangible than the form of the dark beloved.  Here, yearning is born and borne.

But, though the lover carries yearning and desire into unrequited madness, the shadow remains unmoved.  ‘Till she herself is consumed into midnight’s bosom, she offers nothing but stern lips and silence.


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