Moonlight Sonata

He always looked beautiful when he was sleeping.

He looked so peaceful, so pure, and so innocent. So whole. Perhaps it was because his eyes were closed. Those eyes, God, those eyes. They were possibly the best part of his body. He was always betrayed by those eyes.

They said whether he was feeling sad, mad, happy, and mischievous. It was almost frightening. You could almost look right into those eyes and see straight into his soul. Or, if he was in the proper mood, you could lose yourself in them, swimming in vast oceans that were either of darkness or light.

He was my prince. I obeyed his every order. He had only to give me one look, and I would do as I was told. I lived in fear of his reprimand, I rejoiced when he looked at me with approval. I nearly died when he looked at me with love.

And that face. The skin on his face, stretched tight over cheekbones, pulled taut over his forehead. I reached out to trace the skin on his face, memorize it in my fingertips. I loved it when he slept, because I could explore, map him out with no interruptions.

It was times like these that the touches didn’t have to be erotic. Other times, these touches always turned into sex. Well, perhaps not always. But it wasn’t often that we were sentimental like this, simply feeling each other.

I trailed my fingers down his nose.

His hands. I simply adored his hands. Every time I looked at them, they sent shivers down my spine. I knew what those hands could do. They could send me over the edge into ecstasy, or they could bring me to my knees.

Those hands that reached out to grip mine in moments when we were alone, when he hadn’t acknowledged me in his special way, and I was afraid that perhaps he had forgotten about me. Those hands would reach out and touch me, and the electricity that passed between us was enough to jolt my heart.

One simple touch from those hands were enough to send my world spinning again, to keep me breathing, to remind me that he loved me. Not anyone else. Just me. I belonged to him.

I bent over him and kissed his lips, slightly cool and soft beneath my own. Those lips that could sing to me of passion and despair. Those lips that I found myself coming back to again and again. I knew that I was ruined for kissing for the rest of my life. No one could ever, would ever, be able to kiss like he did.

With a simple brush of those lips, he could send my mind reeling, or make me melt into his arms. When he needed it hard and fast, it was reeling, and when he wanted me softly, I melted into him.

Soft nights were my favorites. It was when we wound together, our bodies and perhaps even our souls twining together so that we would become one person. We became one being, writhing and thriving in the sweet dark cover of our night.

I did like the rough nights too, though. It was then that I knew I was truly an individual. It was then that he reminded me who I was, who I belonged to, and what he could do to me.

It was always his name that I cried out, his name that I tasted when it was all over. His arms that I was wound up, his heart that was beating in my ear, setting the rhythm for my own.

I knew that I could not live without him. It was simply impossible. Truly, I would wither and crumble, to blow away like dust in the winds. He was all that kept me alive.

My heart twisted in my chest as I sat on the edge of the bed. Our bed, where we had always come together at the end of the day. We had one simple rule, to never lie in this bed mad at each other. Sometimes it took all night conversations, screaming sessions to come to a resolution. In this bed there had been declarations of love, of frustrations, ultimatums and compromises.

“Darling?” I whispered into the cool stillness of our room. Clothes were strewn together in piles and heaps about the floor. Our scents mingled and mixed together in this room. Shortly after we began to share a bed in every sense of the word, his scent became mine, and mine became his.

They were unique to ourselves still. His exotic and intoxication, mine spicy and alluring. But you could not smell one of us without being reminded of the other. I knew that I would carry that with me for the rest of my life.

Gingerly, so as not to disturb my beloved in the bed, I stretched out next to him. I curled close to his cold body, as though trying to find some warmth where I knew there could simply be none. I pressed my face into his still shoulder and felt my hot tears slip down onto his smooth skin.

“Oh, but I love you.” I whimpered. He did not respond. I pressed my hand to his chest and felt the nothingness inside it. Of course. His heart was not beating. There was no breath that passed over those lips that hypnotized and commanded me so.
“I love you so much, Ville.”

And the moon shone through our open window, coming down on us two, together.