I wondered why that certain perfume still wafted on by.
I heard a sound—not loud, but as a whisper on the wind.
I saw a shadowed figure.
The shadow lengthened before my eyes, and I whispered, “Radiance.”
It was an odd name, but perfect for such a lovely lady.
Alas, my love! I miss you so! I miss the way you used to dance,
My lovely dove, as luminous as an angel above!
Against dark Death’s hungry, withered hand you had no chance,
But it couldn’t be; Shakespeare’s words came to me—
Something wicked this way comes!
The shadow cleared before my poor, burning eyes—my Radiance!
She stood, looking not quite alive, but as a slight, pale phantom.
Her midnight-blue eyes, a starless night, gave a familiar glance.
The hair—the hue I remembered—fire red, was the same, too.
Heart aquiver, I reached longingly with no patience,
To stroke the soft peaches of her cheeks, a soft beseech—
She didn’t reach back for me.
Hurt, I stood-still and halted my apparently ill-thought advance.
“Radiance,” I whispered, but she gave me no answer at all.
Mutely, she watched me, my love turned a creature of Gothic romance.
“My love?” I inquired, “Why do you tarry here and haunt my dreams?”
“I do not wish to haunt your dreams,” replied Radiance.
Her voice as a winter’s wind, and clear as a drop of dew,
Unlike the soft coo I recalled.
“Then, please, explain what force brought you here, my beloved Radiance!
A purer soul there never was, that even angels can’t compare!
Why would you be bound here with me in this world of decadence?
Is it because I still desire you to be here with me?
Your countenance once enchanted me, made me entranced,
But now leaves me frightened; please, I beg you—cease your haunting!
I can’t bear to see you dead!”
Lightning illuminated the room, filling it with radiance,
And as the light faded, and my dazzled eyes could see again,
I beheld no pale ghost—no Radiance!
A horrid, frightful dream! I thought. It must have been a dream!
It was just a dream of my once lovely Radiance.
Surely, my ghostly dream was not real as it had seemed!
Then, I heard a gentle murmur—
Thank you, as a whisper on the wind.
BIO: Marisa Mills spends her time writing poetry, short stories, and fantasy novels. When Marisa's not writing, she's reading.