Beneath the moon's ghostly glow, where shadows dance and whispers flow,
Lies a tale of love, so pure, so true, a bond that death itself did rue.
A lover's touch, soft and light, now lost in the eternal night.
Where once was warmth, now only chill, as love's sweet voice, the silence still.
In midnight's embrace, they'd meet in dreams,
Beyond the veil, or so it seems.
His spectral hand, a ghostly trace,
Yearns to caress her living face.
But fate is cruel, and love is blind,
For one is dead, and one's confined
To walk the earth, alone, bereft,
With nothing but his shadow left.
The clock strikes twelve, the witching hour,
When spirits wield their ancient power.
She feels a touch, a breeze so slight,
A whisper in the dead of night.
"Is it you, my love?" she softly cries,
Searching the darkness with tearful eyes.
But only echoes answer her call,
In the haunted silence of the hall.
Yet every night, she feels him near,
A ghostly lover, drawing dear.
A cold caress, a sigh, a breath,
A love that's stronger even than death.
Though unseen, his presence fills the room,
A perfume hint, a whispered tune,
A touch that chills to the very bone,
Reminding her she's not alone.
So in the shadow of the moon's pale light,
They find each other in the night.
A love that death could not erase,
Bound by time, yet free of space.
For in the realm where shadows play,
Love finds a way to stay.
A ghostly lover's gentle touch,
A bond that death cannot clutch.
In the style of Poe, where darkness reigns and fears grow,
This tale of ghostly love does show
That even in the grip of night,
Love shines ever bright.
A spectral touch, a heart's soft plea,
Together forever, they shall be.