Stricken

With a voice so eerie,

That the nubs of my nipples 

harden,

And ends of my hair stand on 

edge,

And the chill of nostalgia snakes

up my spine,

You’ll whisper in my ear like a 

ghost,

That nightly spell,

In the witching hour.
“I love you.”

Sucking the air out the room. 

With a feeling that’s stills time.

Some passion is so strong. 

It’s surpasses, past, present, and

future. 

Creates its own eternity of 

yearning. 
It never leaves. 

And everyone that walked into it’s wormhole.

Is stricken. 

Like I was stricken. 
Your invasion is a deadly force I’m haunted by. 
Day and night. 

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