Outlines of You

     This empty castle feels warm with your presence. The tiles are still cold and the stale air blows lightly at my back. Caressing the broken skin as if it'd shatter... maybe it would. Steam rolls, billowing out into my shrine. Fictitious images lay in wait on silken sheets of mirage. Still cold but deep within the warmth is there. That spark ignited desperately begging the oxygen to fuel it instead of snuffing it out. Kindling a weak flame, by its choice, how much fire will suffice? The droplets of water dripping down my pale skin might suit it better. It trails from torn shoulders to soft feet onto the tile where it waits to dissipate. More join it in its fate in a never ending loop of repetition.