Her Ghost.

Her lips are a shadow.

Her voice is an echo playing off the dry walls of her paintings.

Her smell lingers through the musty air like an abondoned castle once filled with the scent of her mystifying perfume.

She haunts you.

She cycles through your mind, the windmill of unforgiveness turns eternally to the rhythm of her heart.

So why hasn’t it stopped?

She is not present, her flesh has not touched, her breath has not been drawn nor have her dark eyes opened since they last set.

She taunts you.

She lives where no one can see her, she breathes where no one can hear her, she laughs where no one dare enter.

She is a monster.

A beast of immortality, the dying flesh on your skin, the piercing siren in your ear, the spreading poison in your lungs, the dry blood in your eyes.

She does not love you, she does not love.

You dream of silence, silence in the darkness, silence in the light.

There is no silence, there is only her.

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