The Warding (Le Petit Mort)
Mostly it was the ghost inside that pursued you. The thought I embraced and it's absence was not understood and yet ill-fated. It died a hundred deaths that I respirated. The love was too strong, my yearning too long. I pulled away and it followed. Not like a lost puppy but more like a routine, the way the dawn meets the morning sun. I would pull, it would collapse into a small ball. I had no right to be frightened so I dared not pretend that I was prepared. There was no form of preparation that could ready me for an occasion such as this. Dirty bliss. I was not wrong and I knew I was not wrong because for once I saw dearly my own presence in that room. In that bed. In my own head. But only in your words could I realize my own disturbing beauty. My own false identity. Aspirations wrapped in fears, tied together with the kind of hope that only the young possess. Lastly garnished with misinformed courage that had laid dormant in such a remote area of my being that even I did not know where it had come from and yet when it was revealed it was embraced with the kind of natural hug that you give a stranger down on their luck.
-D. Mouzon
