I watch him, every single thing about him.
A while had passed since the last time he visited, a long while, and I possessed little will power to stop my eyes from taking in the beautiful sight. He was truly a god amongst beings, which is the only thing that made perfect sense to me.
As he had walked in an aura of calm followed. All the doubtful thoughts I had seemed to no longer make any valid stand. The time spent without him in ache and loneliness faded as always. The house in which I stood no longer felt like a well decorated cage.
I was not at peace yet but I knew peace could be achieved at the end of the night.
I watch him.
He's hunched over some papers scattered all over a dark wooded desk. Yellow light from the lamp shinning perfectly, illuminating his features, the silver in his dark hair, that I failed to notice last time, stands in contrast with his young appearance. The dark rimmed glasses hide the wonder filled blue eyes, those eyes that once had looked at me with such want, such determination, overwhelming love. I know they still had the same intensity when tonight they flickered in my direction.
He is oblivious to me, watching, with the thick glass between us. But then, he is oblivious to everything when he is working.
I watch.
He is fixated on the piece of paper. His long fingers hold the pencil captive as he animatedly draws, every stroke, every line from how his hand moves appears perfect.
Watching those hands move, births unholy desires deep within me again; desires I never thought would be possible until I felt his touch. Those long fingers had caressed every curve of my body, leaving me with an unfamiliar ache. Never had I felt so aware of myself. He was so soft in expression and in his touch, not wanting to damage me.
I still remember the first day he brought me to this room. No one before me, no one even till today, had entered. I remember his glee filled face, his husky tone, "You're perfect, just perfect." he repeatedly whispered, holding me close. I remember feeling so small in his hands, so safe, as he laid me down on his desk. The dark wood's color contrasting with my creamy one, yellow light, illuminating us both.
Drowning is his touch.
Those torn, raw, gifted hands had created me. I went through metamorphosis - changing into what he wanted me to be.
Watching him, memories of pleasure and love soon turned into hurt as always. I know more now than I had known before. Along with her face, I inherited her naivety too, because when he looked at me all he saw was her face, her hair, her eyes, her lips.
I had been for her, after all.
The love for him hurt me more than his tear filled eyes after he had pushed me to the corner of the room that day.
Away from him.
He still grieves her loss, bringing many women to the house. I had never seen anyone though, as no one entered this room. But I know from their voices and his, that there was no love. Just as I know I am not one of those women.
Want.
I want so much for us. For him to finally realize I am not like her. I have my own identity. My own nature. My raven hair is not like her black one. My blue eyes are bigger and shine brighter. The curve of my pink lips is true. The rosy blush of my cheeks is permanent. But most of all, I want him to realize that I love him. A piece of her soul that always will love him, I hold it within me. If I could cry tears I would drown in mine to prove my love. If I could beg I would beg god to take away his pain. If I could make him hear my voice I would comfort him with it. I want him to look at me with a smile and the same intensity as the first time.
"James, it's late." An airy voice drifts from the open door. I watch him stand up, pushing the papers away in defeat. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. He turns towards the door. I watch him leave, my heart beating faster with every step, desperation and depression taking over. Fear of never seeing him again. Need to feel him once more overcomes my existence.
Suddenly, he stops mid step and turns back. His eyes looking squarely at me, like after a long time, he finally sees me. Soon his expression turns hooded. He turns to look at the door once before coming in my direction.
"Is that it?" the same airy voice asks, standing in the door. He doesn't reply nor does he tell her not to enter as she comes to stand next to him. She is tall and lean. Her brown hair appeared darker being wet. Her dark green eyes have an awed shine. She wraps her arms around his waist as if to comfort him.
"It's beautiful." she says.
"She is." He agrees, opening the glass door to the cupboard for her to see more clearly and lightly touching my face from the back of his hand, it leaves a tingling sensation on my wooden skin.
"Let's leave." He says closing the door and turning away with her in tow.
"Will you ever make a doll for me?" she asks, her voice young and wishful.
Stopping, he cups her face and answers, "Nothing I create can ever capture your beauty."
They leave, leaving me alone, in the dark to live with memories of his.
