11 May 2012
He had mixed his powders and potions, his incense the essence of death. Black was his colour of choice today, his alter before him was set.
For a lifetime he'd studied the grimoires, the Egyptian book of the dead, from the black book of Agrippa, to the Necronomicon, he had read.
She had been a loving companion, she had been his every breath. Now she had been stolen from him, and he would steal her back from death.
He had written out the incantations, his candles a solid black. He had shaved and bathed, meditated and prayed, that the old gods would carry her back.
In the stillness, the words where vibrated, patchouli the scent in the air, and as the parchment was burnt on the alter, for a moment he felt she was there.
It was more than just a presence, for he felt her icy kiss, then he spoke into the candle light: "I love you, you are missed."
That was all he wanted to tell her, that was all he wanted to say. To claim a missed opportunity, he had missed on that fatal day.
Her spirit could no longer linger, and he knew she could not stay, as into the ether he kissed her, before a cold breeze took her away.
Cold Breeze • Opuss № I