Cold Blackness

 I watch him lie there. He shifts in his sleep. He turns, and each time he turns, another whimper, another shudder, another tear escapes. The moonlight seems to strike him at an odd angle. Shadows shift, covering his back, his arm, his wrist. He flings a hand over the dew-covered night grass. The fingers uncurl, and there, upon his palm, another shadow stirs to life. He twists, and on his smooth bare chest there is an empty space of stars and blackness, deep, deep, something falling in the cold blackness, crying to be heard. He, himself, falling while I watch fascinated and do not move even as those stars wheel suddenly into the sky. I try to count them as they go, as they blur past the trees dappling the sky.
     I slowly and gently reach for his pale, elegant hand and hold onto it as my only salvation, as my only way to keep him safe. I sight softly and lay beside him, holding that hand close to my heart, never wanting to release it. I uncurl his fingers to fit mine perfectly between them. As I do so, I again look upon his palm. There in his hand rests a single star. I watch trembling as it splits to form two, one gliding with a small tingling sensation into my own palm. Then we are falling, falling into the cold blackness in his scarred sad soul...

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• 1972 of 1999
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