You are dangerous to my soul.
It’s your voice. I hear it and I blink, I stop, I think – I think, I need this, I need you in my life.
(But I can’t trust you, I can’t trust that voice, I can’t trust a word you say because I’m always aware of the words you don’t say.)
It’s the sound you make when I slide my fingers down to the small of your back. It’s a catch in your throat, a self-satisfied sigh – it intoxicates me, that power my touch has over you.
(But I can’t trust it, I can’t trust you, because that’s a lure for me, and it overwhelms me, the power that you have over me.)
You’re in my dreams, whispering to me, in my ear, making me toss and turn and twist in my blankets, weak and pathetic, yearning for a ghost, your ghost, because you aren’t who you said you were, you aren’t who you were to me anymore, you aren’t you, so you’re just a phantasm.
Your voice, your sounds, your body – all of it, a specter, a banshee, a hook that I have baited myself and slipped through my own lip, hooking me on something unreal, something a half-remembered memory, a fantasy – smoke and funhouse mirrors…
Slip your fingers over my mouth; my tongue to your tips; close my eyes; silence my throat; still my heart.