The Shadow of Narcissus

Wait, said the shadow, wait until night comes.

So he waits until the night comes, consuming the day with age-old inevitability. It must be nearly dark, said the shadow, so he keeps a light on- for without light there are no shadows, only cold, unrelenting darkness.

Where the darkness is cold, the shadow is warm as it wraps around him like a second skin, soft yet unyielding at the same time. He feels the pressure building as it constricts tighter, until finally the shadow coalesces into solid form. A taller, stronger, more mature (more handsome, he thinks) version of himself now lies on top of him, their noses touching. He thinks he can feel warm breath on his face, but that's ridiculous, because shadows don't breath.

He moves his arms so they wrap around the other form's (the other me he thinks) neck, who shifts slightly to cup his original's cheek. No words are exchanged: none are needed. How crazy would he have to be to talk to himself?

Their mouths meet, and it feels like the breaking of the tide upon the beach. The hand on his cheek moves to his hair, and he shifts his arms to clutch his replica's back. When they break apart he feels light-headed, and he almost laughs:

The shadow tastes of dust.