Prelude.

Sitting in your chair, stoic, like a freshly sculptured statue awaiting imperfections to be smoothed out, dust on your acuminous shoulders.

[We] are ghosts that haunt.

Placing my hand upon this austere form, bowing down, I whisper  leaving a faint residue of words.

I am here, right where you wanted me.

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~ by kagomesakura on May 15, 2011.

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