Muse

When the world is quiet and still he comes to me. Tendrils of power drift around him in a graceful, kinetic dance, arcing from his hands to my flesh, burning their way through my synapses, at odds with the frigid bite of his skin. The soft smokey murmur in my ear pins me as certainly as too dark eyes and all thoughts of protest dissipate. He smells of ginger and cloves, sharp, seductive, hypnotic. Glass, stone, metal and bone woven into shaggy locks sing their own melody and I'm drowning under the onslaught, sinking into a place only he can drive me. When the whispers turn dark he dances, twisting and twirling, horns scribing the text into my flesh as the heady tang of copper mingles with spice. Then he smiles, a slight quirk of his lip, the tip of a pink tongue flicking out to taste my fears, my dreams, my essence encoded in my DNA. I would run, I would hide, I would surrender my soul for words of pleasure and pain. The rustle of finished pages, the itch of newly healed flesh, the secret of my success, he follows his own path. As for myself, I live to sleep and dream of my other half, this cruel symbiote without whom I am lost.