Dove
Humans are such horrible, terrible, pitiful, broken animals.
We are so vulnerable - weak, thin, easily broken. It is not hard to kill us - we don’t have claws or tough hides, we don’t have quills or protective layers of fur and hair. Our bones are easy enough to break that we don’t even need tools to do it, if you know the right trick. We are cursed - it is no surprise we were cast out of Eden, no surprise that the Creator turned His back on His hideous creation.
But that is not the most damning of our flaws.
It is strange to watch a sleeper - the only time anybody is honest is when they are asleep, and then that is a stolen honesty. It feels a violation: who am I to rob them of that privacy, to steal a glance at their soul when they have no opportunity to hide it where it is safe? It is damnable, to play voyeur; it is no coincidence that the forbidden fruit is synonymous with the naked form.
And yet, I watch.
There is a peacefulness to them, when they sleep - the manic energy, the artistic brilliance that makes their pale skin glow is gone now, replaced by a gentle stillness so… uncharacteristic. The rise and fall of their chest mirrors the delicate slope of their nose, their jaw, replacing the edge they hold in their cheekbones. There is more muscle than before - I can trace the lines under their skin, and I understand now where the painter finds the beauty of a curve. They are so still - almost deathlike, in sleep. I’m sure they would appreciate the comparison, even though I find it frightens me now in ways I do not understand.
And yet, they are not dead.
They are so very alive.
Their breath comes hot against my hand when I hold their face, and their little snores break the silence of the silk upon the bed. They are vital and pulsing and alive, and I cannot help but to throw myself into the jaws of perdition for but a taste of their warmth. It is selfish, what I do; childish and weak, but I am as helpless to resist as a moth fed to a flame. What else could I do but to steal their warmth? To press my body against theirs and let their gentle heat ebb into mine and banish the memory of how they were before? Banish the memory of the cold if I had been a day, an hour, a minute later?
I am so grateful that I did not let Blanche go cold.
I do not know what Eddie would be without their warmth.