To Own You

Over a period of the last eight months, the person closest to me became a person I now want to know. Someone who writes. Writes to strange things and stranger people, about strangeness. I try to identify this person, locate her. She appears out of nowhere on most nights, out of words actually. Or on morose mornings, as she tries to come to terms with her various masks. Like the soft mark left on a stack of hay that has been sat upon, she remains on my mind -- a mark. As I took my late shower, I tried to locate her. I needed to know her -- the person who writes, and is the real recipient of all the accolades. I explored a little longer than I usually do, and there she was, an off-white blur slowly becoming curves.

She was no longer the person I considered being the closest to. She differed from everything I ever have been. In her walk at dawn, while breaking the waves, she looked to be in control, absolutely aware of each of her step. There was a happy feel about her entity, one that you would wish to surrender to, believing she would hold your hand and take you onwards happiness. And she was sexy. Very. Her long hair lashing her cheekbones lovingly, her senses devouring each moment with a self-belief, her clothes tenderly fondling her. Her gait impressing as if she owned that place. I stalked her back to where she belonged.

Uncannily, she returned to where I lived, the same room, the same bed. Which when occupied by her looked so different, they enlivened with her spirit. There was an eerie sense of connection she made with each thing she touched or looked at. I walked alongside her, back to my head. The colours she created turned chaotic. It was a mesmerizing mess of me-ness. And it was killing me, this uncertainty of a beautiful being.

I ran back to my room through the mirror and looked to see if she was still there. She was, and this time, extending her hand to me. While I was hunted down by my shadow, she basked in her own glow.

To know you is to own you.