Who is this ghost that moves through my bones,
This ghost that stirs my entrails?
A flavor of something forgotten that never was.
I long for a love that never was and never will be.
My securities hinge on the unseen,
They long for the unborn.
My fears paint this phantom with shades of terror.
What threatens the center of my universe with its dark vortex?
What shakes my soul with its beckoning call?
The promise of new love is like the threat of dying of thirst in the desert when the coolest of lakes is always just over the next dune.
Only love can entice the old soul back into the light, into the forgetfulness of youth, into the threat and promise of the new.
And yet, love musingly hides.
It plays with our affections and disappears.
Its most erotic moments are as real as the sun.
When it leaves it ushers in the dark night of the soul.
It creates day and night all the while no one knows it.
It makes the young old and the old young.
It wettens the driest, most parched spirit with its juices and then returns its voluptuous, paradismal creation to the desertous night.
Oh ghost of my longings,
Oh breasts from which I long to feed,
How can you define my day and night,
My years from birth to death,
And yet – I never knew you?
Oh ghost from whom my soul rises and falls,
Oh phantom that plays in and through all my exteriorities and creates my interiorities.
Love is the ghost that never was but always will be.