Feeling Phantasmagorical

(Finally I have finished 1 of some 10 stuffs I had to post)

She discovers this in the escritoire, when she finally unstuck the tiroir, laboriously. A letter bearing her name appeared. It was written in green ink (like melted pine tree diluted with Evian). The penmanship was shivered, nonetheless carried an elegance unfound in this time. As if it were written by someone who had attended a school a long time ago. Several spots on the parchment appeared soaked. It looked like it had been conjured in a rush.

Ma Chère Isabell—

You reckon you do not know me, you cannot see me, and you reckon you do not remember me. And yet, I remember you.

Perhaps all too well.

I remember your visage beneath the moon like it was yesterday. The moonlight flowed down your cheveux like shattered mercury, dripping across your wrists.

I have stood in the vacant ballroom, devoid of the laughter of the shallow invités in their treacherous complexion. For what use are they when you have longed for someone with soul?

I have seen the way you danced across the polished parquet, alone, when the music no longer flowed like fine wine from the cave beneath you. Yet you extended your hand across the empty hall when no one was left to watch—a shivered attempt to grasp something that was not there.

Were you thinking of me?

And it is I who shared the same eternal melancholy across the years we have shortly roamed this wicked land, where we held an unspeakable longing that beckons us for the additional under the most silent hours, with tears of crystal mirroring the moon gliding down our very cheeks.

Know that I have unwaveringly adored you and always will, in this life and the past, in tomorrow and yesterday—even if you cannot feel that right now.

I am your sigh across the jardin when the dew freezes itself in the morning, your sigh visible as a white frozen mist, descending onto the rose—considered wild but really neglected too long. And I am your hesitation, an inexplicable sensation when you have stood where I have stood in my bibliothèque. Across the now-dusty bookshelf, when you laid your delicate fingers across that very same sonnet that I have lingered my hands on.

If you love me still, if you hear my silent cry at minuit, if you feel my presence on the porch awaiting your return in the twilight, and if you have felt my whisper to your skin when you did come back to me, then—

Écoute, Écoute!!

If you do hear me—if you still feel me—say my name aloud, and I will come back to you. Again and again.