Soulmate

The lonely air is frostbitten in my heatless bedroom. It surrounds me, faceless and strange, an unwelcome silent storm raging quietly against the warmth of my skin, breath, and blood. Nights like these remind me of dreams, of night's vision of a man whom I have never met.

He has been Viking lord dancing with his new bride – a spoil of war, yet willing prisoner of his kind eyes. He has been wizard casting needless enchantments on a heart already his to claim. He has been lover, fiend, fighter, and friend. And though we have never met, I know his face.

It has been memorized from years of nighttime lifetimes spent together. The sound of his voice is in my blood. The feel of his hand is written on my skin, in language that only we know. Hidden in my sighs are memories of countless first kisses. Our bond is beyond heart or spirit. Yet, he remains a nameless specter haunting longing daydreams and possessing our brief, cut-short nights.

I unconsciously search for his eyes, his smile, his essence in passing men, but they are ordinary, breathing reality. They have humdrum hearts that pump mundane blood. They have routine, barely noteworthy words, and simple, banal faces. They are just lukewarm, tepid passersby.

I crave feverish breath fueled by incinerating kisses. I need humid blood and electric pulse, exploding supernova heart. Starving skin devouring the burning aphrodisiac of his.

Please tell me he is a someday promise, that he is somewhere flesh, breath and blood; that somewhere he is sitting alone – perhaps in a lonely, frostbitten room – dreaming vivid visions, longing for a still nameless me.