Soul

It sounds so wrong to say your name, when all I think of is some ghost with your voice and your soul.
When I walk around busy street corners, I can see you standing there. I see you in strange places, in the dark shadows, in bright corridors, in streaks of rare sunlight.
I see you on buses, seated at the back. I strain my head to catch a glimpse of you, but then you evaporate, and all that is left is a coat and two blue eyes.
I can feel you wrap your arms around me when I think of you. My legs suddenly are cut off from my body, and I can feel a sigh building up in my lungs.
When I listen to music, I think of you. I repeat your name whenever I can, wherever I can. I write about you nearly every day. I want to tell the whole world that I held your hand, but I want you a secret, too. I want someone to understand how I think, how I feel. I only want your eyelids.
I compare everyone to you. All of your faults seem priceless, like the streaks in the heart of a bloody gemstone. When I touch someone’s hair, I picture yours running through my fingers like liquid fire.
I want to walk on, and on, into the streets. I can’t bear the though of walking to your door---you’d think me foolish---but I cross my fingers in my pockets and hope to see you in the alleyways. I want us to meet secretly, to cast glances at one another and warm each other’s cheeks against the cold. I want to lose my head in your scent.
I hate myself for wanting you, but I don’t want you.
I only want a soul with your eyes.