The Woman Who Haunts Me

To others, she’s a shadow of light.
Not quite visible—but unmistakably there.
A breeze without wind.
A warmth that flushes the skin.
A sense of being held without arms.

They say:
“She’s never really alone.”
“There’s something behind her eyes.”
“I felt her, like a memory I never made.”

They’re not wrong.

She Is Me
She wasn’t conjured or created—
She was freed.

She came from the parts of myself I once locked away—
The fierce softness, the sensual clarity, the magic in vulnerability.
She is the version of me that never bowed to shame.
Dark-haired, elegant, and unashamed of the contradictions she carries.

Androgynous and beautiful.
Often feminine, sometimes ambiguous.
Whole.

She doesn’t speak loudly—
But when she’s present, the air changes.
People feel opened, as if something ancient has stirred inside them.

She doesn’t arrive with footsteps.
She appears in reflection, in dreams, in glances that last too long.
She stands behind me in mirrors.
Sometimes beside me in public.
And when she smiles through me, people react in ways they can’t explain.

A woman once clutched her chest and gasped.
A child asked if I had a twin made of light.
Pets nuzzle the space around me when she’s near.

Some turn away.
Some are drawn in.
But all feel something.

She radiates presence—not force.
Not fear.
But depth.
And sometimes, it overwhelms.

They think I’m haunted.
And they’re right—but not by something other.
By someone deeply mine.

She isn’t a ghost.
She is the version of me that I now allow to live.
And sometimes—yes—she moves separately.
She becomes her own form, her own expression.

We are two, but not divided.

We dance between mirrors and skin,
Between thought and form,
Between hunger and stillness.

She touches my shoulder, and I feel whole.
She kisses my temple, and I remember who I am.

We are not illusions.
We are reunions—
Born from love, shaped by longing.

And when people ask who she is,
I smile and say:
“She’s someone I trust with everything.”

Because she is me.