A Big, Beautiful, Disaster

Haunted

Not all haunted things are houses.
She haunts me.
The way her pale soft skin seems to glow in an even softer ethereal light in likeness to the delicate light of the moon. A moon which seems to rise every night in tribute to her very existence. It forbids itself from leaving my thoughts.
She haunts me
Those large, milky, sullen eyes you'd think sickly if you didn't see the light behind them. Those pale eyes, that seem to stow hidden thoughts, eloquently reside behind thin delicate lashes. They're so light and sparse, they can only be seen when standing close enough to hear her quiet, whispery breath. A breath so subtle you can barely feel it.
She haunts me
The very thought of her clouds my mind, creating an unwanted mist of longing seeping through me. just to be near her, to remind myself she's as real as the wind that winds around me, the very idea more addictive than the strongest drug. My addiction, an obsession even. An obsession that seems to be not of my choosing, but forced upon me by her very presence. is it her doing that causes this madness to stir within me? Is it my own lack of strength? This disturbing thought only soothed by the thought of her. That is how I knew.
She haunts me.
Shes my life.
She's my hope.
She's my parasite.
Not all haunted things are houses.