Ophelia Immortal

The dying sun creeps warily in, a lone wolf for whom the chase has lead not to his prey but to the hunter’s lair. It meanders between dead trees which lean so far their bleached limbs brush the brittle leaves which litter the ground, sparkling with last night’s frost. The few which still stand lay bare in sympathy for the season, gnarled hands clawing at shapeless grey sky, and the pale remnants of what once was light play between their fingers. Ivy wires entwine their wrists, cutting deep into the silvered bark; the trees bleed warm sticky sap onto heart shaped leaves, dark green and glistening in the early Winter mist. 1

One of the first things I learned to miss was Winter mornings like this one. True, I still have Winter mornings here, wherever here is, just as I have Spring, Summer and Autumn, afternoon, evening and night. 2

Only they mean nothing to me now. 3

So what is left on mornings such as these? Holes. An empty longing. Longing to feel the icy fingers of late October air play out their songs against my flesh. Longing for that icy caress, that rush of crimson heat. 4

That feeling of being so totally alive. 5

And now? Nothing.6

Spectres of light still play between the bleached branches. Icy leaves are crisp and crunch under foot. The dawn wing still rushes, but its songs are heavy, dirge like, a grey lament for my grey existence. Ice maiden, snow angel. Poor soul. 7

So young. So pure. Damned face! Who but we know the horror lurking beneath our flesh, the darkness deep within only I and my mirror have seen? And what is left of me now? A shadow waltzing between pallid sunbeams, reflections of what I was, and am, and can never be. 8

And am forever more.9