Sparkatale

The darkest little shadow
Sits alone along the wall
Eyes are black
And face is pale
With no features to be seen,
And it just stares.

When finally it begins to move
A cold wind is stirred
The shadow traces a wispy hand
Along the wall
But feels no texture.
Its feet never once do touch
The floor,
And yet it drifts forward.

Its eyes come across
A young woman in her bed.
The shadow curiously inches forward
And leans its misted form
Reaches a hand out to touch her.

It makes a sound.

The young female opens an eye
And shudders from a strange cold
Sits upright and looks out
Into the darkness of the room.
There is nothing.

The shadow is shy,
But longs for attention.

And so the woman returns to sleep.
The shadow moves forward again
Tilts its head once to the side
And gently brushes its hand
Across the slumbering girl's face.

The shadow feels her warmth
And the life that radiates within.
The woman gives off a light
That the shadow can't help but crave.
It touches her again,

And wails with loneliness.

She sits upright,
Startled by the moaning cry
And spies the agonized shadow
As it walks back into the darkness.

It turns around
And stares her in the eye.
Makes her jump with fright,
And disappears into the depths once more.
The woman sits up,
Feeling not afraid
But sympathetically sad
For the lonely isolation of the
Existing non-existence.