100 Words

I am the wind that caresses the arch of your cheekbone with my fleeting fingertips and plays in the twists of your hair.

I am the voice that cries out in the darkness, whose soul is rent beneath the light of the moon, the weave of my heart tugged loose.

I am she who mourns beneath the stars, their silver fire dripping like wet paint upon my cheeks, their heat pooling in the hollow of my throat.

I am the apathy and the lethargy, the beings that live in the emptiness and feed upon the loneliness of such fragile souls.