Puretaboo
Olive Glass, Alexis Tae Pic(s)
A presence, not a sound, began to unfurl from the deepest corner of the room, a slow exhalation of cold that had nothing to do with the air. It was a palpable weight that slid across the floorboards, a silken pressure that climbed the bedpost with the deliberate patience of a rising tide. The fine hairs on my arm lifted one by one, not in fear, but in a strange, electric anticipation, as if a lover’s breath was cooling the sweat on my skin from an impossible distance. A scent, faint and metallic like old co and damp earth, ghosted over my lips, a phantom kiss that promised a terrible intimacy. I felt the mattress depress slightly beside me, the linen sheets tightening their weave as an unseen form settled its weight, its proximity making the air hum with a static charge. My own heartbeat became a frantic drum agat my ribs, a captive audience to this silent performance, while a chill that was paradoxically feverish traced the line of my jaw with an intangible finger. The darkness itself seemed to congeal, becoming a velvet shroud that pressed down, not smothering, but embracing, its touch both a threat and an invitation to a union beyond flesh. A whisper, formed not of sound but of pure intention, slithered into my mind, painting images of tangled limbs and cold, eager mouths in the abyss behind my eyelids. I remained perfectly still, a willing participant in this haunting, every sense amplified to a painful acuity, waiting for the next touch in the thrilling, unbearable suspense.
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