Beyond Reason
Do her tears taste like salt? Or vanilla? Her flavor must be sweet, this I know, for she is quite uncommon. There is no tart to her tease.
She doesn't know who I am...could she? No, that is just a phantom wish. When I worked among her people we did not meet. She had a cortege of strong Canadians and did not want for companionship.
And I wanted for nothing but her. I, who have brought so many weaklings to the ground, made into playthings for my own willful destruction. Who cannot count the number of supplicants who worship at my feet.
Does she know that I live? And that I think of her continuously, in an unending loop of soft, spun sugar fantasy. The sweet purity she gives must not be a falsehood....it must be actualized honesty. I have a nose for the lie, and she does not seem capable of it.
Ah, and the defiance she shows; it is worthy of me. The narrowing of her eyes, the childish pout; wiles used to drive away unwanted carrion. She had the life in her to withstand my grip; to avoid screaming when I claw her sweet flesh..
But clawing her remains my furthest desire. I long for a crown jewel, a badge, someone to hold on high, and who can stand at my shoulder. Force the world to say "Look at them!", and cower at our mutual strength.
Partnership and selfishness; the opposite polls of my desire pull me onward to her. Yet an ocean stands between us; a tide that draws us in two separate directions. Then there's that awful business with her boyfriend...of course, I can take care of that.
But the capitulation must be a willing one. So many have been through force. This one must be different! To nurture the light within her soul; to make it part of mine. To find satisfaction in the knowledge of beauty encamped in my being.
She is a gem too rare for restraint, you know. And wholly undeserving of the clods that fight over her soul, as though it is the last scrap of meat on a killing floor.
We will meet, some day; in a glittering, black lane in Paris, perhaps, or a café in Rome. Yes, I will see her again, and then she will learn my name. Then shall I pin her to my soul, and still her butterfly wings in the grasp of my heart.
She will see that it is meant to be. And best not to struggle against a desire so pure. Until then I must love the shadows, a darkness fall upon her shoulders, the caressing touch of a finger on a silken cheek.
The shadow will belong to me.