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Phantom of a Dove"Are you happy?"
His green eyes bore down on mine, searching their shielded depths.
"Why do you hold me back? My sweet, delicate flower, grant me the right to pass through the iron gates you keep up. Alas! Let me behold your very soul."
"I shall not sir; my soul is not white, nor is it free from taint. I fear you should scorn it, recoil from its depth and never again look at me the same as you do now."
My throat burned like a thousand flames licked at its vulnerable tenderness. Should I grant him this? Allow this precious creature to glance into the depths of my soul? I know he will be ashamed at what he finds, all of my faults, my fears, the pleads I shall continue to keep at bay till I am six feet under the earth; alas, then I shall let them sing.
"I beg of you, be this silent statue no longer! I wish to know you, not continue to talk to merely a phantom; for you are smoke and mirrors."
I reach a quick resolution. Drinking in his scorn and disgust; thus allowing me leave
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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