My lover is perfect. His breath so gentle upon my skin at night, like the whispering waves of the summer sea. His hands knowing my secret erogenous zones, his fingers uncovering more secrets, that erupt like hot lava, building up through the night to volcanic orgasms. He explores me as he would an unknown foreign island. My lover is special, manners from a different age, gallant and brutal. He makes my own worries melt away, as the wax drips down the candle, lighting our journey towards the sunrise. This is when he disappears, yet I can still sense his presence around me, hear his voice call my name, like an echo from another metaphysical realm.
His scent is that of leather, rose petals, the sea and woodsmoke. When he is gone this scent is what I try to hold on to, like grains of sand slipping through my fingers. He is with me, yet like memories and mist over the mountains on a winter morning. I can see the ocean from my bedroom window, he resides, a current within the ocean of time. He is eternal.
My lover is a ghost.
It is certainly not unusual for me to be in communication with those who have passed from this Earthly plane. As a psychic medium this is indeed part of my job description and not something that I am or should be afraid of. I often have fragmentary conversation with ghosts, see flickerings of shadows passing by, lights blinking on and off and occasionally those phantoms that look in every way solid and real, if it were not for the antiquated clothing, or at times, garish open wounds. Other people have warned me of the dangers of necromancy, to not encourage the dead to speak- you do not know who or what entity you are really in contact with.
I am not sure of the moral implications of a medium becoming romantically involved with a ghost, such as when a student/teacher boundary is crossed or when a doctor oversteps his professional norms, becoming enamoured by his young patient. However, some say ghosts do not exist and are entirely of the imagination. If that is so, I am only deluding myself and harming no one.
With precognition I had already met him, years before we had become lovers, years before our first real conversation. In my crystal ball, I had scryed him. It was as if he was peering back at me through the murky reflective globe. Black haired, a kind of scarf twisted beneath a battered triangle hat. Behind him, sea boats and a sky and sea that seemed to merge, like a voyage into unknown territory that went on seemingly forever until land was sighted.
To make love to a spirit, a phantom, is something that enchants every cell of the body, it exudes otherworldliness into the chakras, seeing the physical with the third eye, feeling, as ectoplasmic fingers, a sea-wise hardened body and cock break through from the astral, from times past, to my present and Earthly plane.
He can take my own spirit up into his arms, to a place where I am climaxing amongst swirling waves, creaking pirate ships, and forests of hidden bandits. He seeps through, into my world again, slipping into my dreams when we fall to sleep together.
It is both ephemeral and never ending. There is no concept of time in his world. In this world he is gone too soon. Yet when he leaves I know I want to be with him, in this world or his. To hold hands. For his hand to pull me through to him.
When I sit on the rocks looking out to sea, I feel close to him. When the waves break and drench me with their saltiness, and the wind blows back my hair, I am consumed by him. When he comes to me at night, I am drenched again, my skin, my cunt, that he has made wet again after such long absence.
We did not begin as lovers. I believe that was not his intention or mine. We connected, as I lay upon my leather couch, in my old house, that has stood through many crackling winters and desperate summer storms, stood as kings and queens have fought and fallen.
"They say they've got no masts. So we have to wait. I'm sitting at the harbour with my quart of wine for company". Africa is where the the riches are to be made, deals to be made. Upon the perilous journey, the Spanish fleets are there for the taking.
I, back in the twenty first century and he, waiting, idle, on a harbour, some time in the mid-1700s. Actually, he is lying on his side, on a stone wall, where carts and pedestrians pass, his head resting on his hand.
His spirit drifted through time, across eons to reach mine. It may seem strange that communication can cross these boundaries of space and time, yet really, no. The past, the present, the future are not a straight line, through which we pass. The universe is multi- dimensional, much different than what we are taught or deceived to believe. It did not feel as if he was a spirit from the afterlife but a connection from his point in time to mine. Yet, I know he is drifting, somewhere in the astral, perhaps awaiting a lover, a soul connection, unable to move beyond, into what poets, composers and Christians alike have called The Heavens.
His name is Hanson. No not handsome. Hanson.
"I'm not handsome, you see, I caught something. I've got these pits all over my skin. Pox that's it." Yet with his aquamarine eyes and thick ebony hair, I saw deep beauty shining through. It is true, he looked nothing like the ideals of male beauty of the modern age, those well groomed men, these gym toned idols, and if they have facial hair it would be a well-tamed hipster beard or goatee. He has a small curling beard on his chin and dark hair on his chest.
