I see her eyes mourn for the love we once shared, I cannot
wipe her tears. When I know she is asleep behind locked
doors, I cannot invade her world. I know my place. I
belong to the dark and prefer that prison to the possibility
that this evil that controls me might do her harm. I watch
until I convince myself, night after night, that it is better
she thinks me dead–at the bottom of the sea or stolen into
the night by a band of murderers, or any of the other
gruesome stories her father, friends, and neighbors have
told her–to ease her soul. I could hear the stories from
where I hid, but I could not correct them. The truth was,
is, and always will be far worse. Silence is the sister to my
solitude. I would rather she think me dead than think me a
deserter. The pain that I am still here, yet she must not
know, is darker than the night. I remain invisible, a captive
of this dark, because of love. I remain close but concealed.
No, I would not desert her. I would never leave her. I have
not left her yet. I watch. I want. I wish. I yearn for things I
cannot have. I wrench in pain at the memory of things I
once had. I weep at knowing I will never have them again.
Once, I was in love. Now, I am in limbo.
I want only to know true death. Instead, I bend to
the call of blood. I drink my fill. I succumb to the power
of hell. I did not ask for this.
I return to watch at her window, one last glimpse
as the rose aura of a shy sun about to awaken threatens.
The dawn is not for me. The menace of morning means I
must return to interment, entombed until the night calls
again. Good night, my love. Or is it good day? I want to
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