Covering, coloring, smothering,

Changing forms into shadows.

Tricking the eyes like a mirage

Swirling images project on walls--

Is that a person? Is someone there?

I am afraid, but in love.

I can't see and I can imagine.

Twisting tendrils flash out,

Grasping my vision and tearing

What use must it have for my eyes?

Playful, deceiving, conceptual dark.

All pink and beautiful as it hits the floor softly (not)

Like flower petals it scatters

It is so blissful,

I could cry

Alas,

It is regurgitated strawberries

There's a stillness in the air.

It's not unusual for an empty house, nor is the dust; but there is something different.

Silence.

It's midday in summer. The birds are too tired to chatter and the wind seems to have abandoned this place. There is nothing here.

Suddenly, time seems to have stopped and for a moment - just a moment - the world does too.

And suddenly, you feel alone. Agonizingly alone. And only the sound of your heartbeat keeps you sane.

There is no one - nothing - here.

Your hands look soft,

supple and smooth.

Your touch is sweet

and I love you.

Your caress would be gentle

and pleasing to be sure,

but touch me with

your greasy

potato chip hands

and you won't touch me

no more.

One.

Silky bristles on a figure, fidgeting in the delicate breeze.

Two.

Glossy threads weaved in a quilt of intricacy.

Three, four, five.

Glass orbs opaque with intensity.

Six.

A pair of noble daggers stained with crimson life.

Seven.

The haloed silhouette dilated to an immense shadow.

Eight.

The spider sauntering in the twilight.