The Beholder

I feel cool breath on my face, as regular and soft as only deep sleep can make it. The only light in the room creeps under the thick, dark curtains; just enough for me to see her features outlined against the blackness. Her scent is all around me, seeming to compliment the warm night air. I doubt I could think of anything or anyone else even if I wanted to.

All is silent but for the slow, steady breaths following one another as though counting down every second. I don't even move for fear of ... I'm not even sure. But I don't move anyway. Just in case. As if the entire scene were frail porcelain ready to shatter at a twitch.

She moves a bit in her sleep. Maybe she does that when she dreams. I'll probably never know. 

I can see her face more clearly now. 

I would wish that the moment would never end, but fools wish for such things. 

Short red hair frames the top of her face which is passive and contented in slumber. Her skin looks soft and pale in the moonlight. She is swathed in thick blankets and, by implication, I am too. The heat of two bodies is stifling but still, I do not move. It almost feels as though all of the chaotic pieces of my life, flung about randomly, have suddenly come together. Like jigsaw pieces that seemed to fit nothing, and constantly thrown about with wild abandon, fusing to paint a perfect picture. 

The perfect moment. 

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. And beauty she truly is.

I am left with such a beautiful mourning.



The End

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