A Night of Musing

It was a game they had played at for what felt like ages. The tug and pull of wills. It had been a night of challenge, of desires hidden and deprived fed full with flesh lit only by starlight during the long, dark night.

It occurred to him as the morning light dawned then bleached into daylight, she did not stir. Restless as she was awake so was she in sleep, yet this day of all days she lay still upon his bed.

Her arms lay above her, reaching to cross at the wrists where they still lay bound with the red silken ribbons he had brought back across the borders. He must have fallen asleep right off. He mentally chastised himself for such inconsideration.

Small bruises colored her skin, his brands to reveal the chain links that bound their souls, one unto the other, to show the world she was his match. He smiled to himself as he swaggered across the room to examine the night’s handiwork. She had always teased of leaving her mark on him but his body had risen was unscathed that morning while she retained the badges of her office.

He traces the peaks and valleys of her figure expected some tickled response to awaken her from slumber. One thing the restlessness assured him of, her nightmares had not returned that night. That night she was his alone.

He sighed contentedly upon her neck, smelling what little was left of the earthy oil she wore. It reminded him of fresh mint in iced tea, a throw back memory to the gentlemanly days of southern princes, perhaps. He lay down next to her, smoothed his hands along her arms and untied the delicate hands that had written the words that had first caught his attention.

A poet is nothing without his muse nor a poetess, for that matter, and they had found within each other that immortal essence of inspiration, the ambrosia which granted one to clothe themselves in eternity with the wisdom of timelessness.

She neither moved nor spoke… still. He thought to provoke her from sleep with kisses, but found her stubbornly unyielding. It was another match to the game they had played out the night before. He enjoyed the coquette in her, sought it out, demanded from it those desires she kept hidden beneath her oddly naïve veneer. He had taken everything from the coquette that night, and had left them both breathless in the effort.

He pulled away to watch her eyes upon him, watch them burn with the same fire as the night before, but they held fast, fixed towards the window. It was then he noticed the tracks lining the sides of her face where tears had trailed down into her hair.

Shocked, he spoke to her, apologized, and finally began to plead as her gaze remained locked with a look focused upon a distance he couldn’t reach. She was cold to him, cold to the touch. He reached for her tiny wrist, just in case, but when no pulse was found he looked up to refine his fingers placement, noticing for the first time the abrasions under his touch.

He touched his head to her breasts, dying for a heartbeat, for while his color drained from his face it fed to the chaos overtaking him. He took her face in his hands, and leaned in close, listening for the soft rush, waiting for the touch of breath upon his cheek.

He threw her down, like he had done so many times the night before, but this time he backed away. Falling back upon the floor for support, he gazed up at the body he’d dreamt of for so long and noticed she neither warm nor loving as she was now, her breast no longer moved with her heartbeat.

The muse had left him in the night, driven back to eternity by the one who used her for its influence. He slowly realized, perhaps it had not been a game that time…

As his tears slid down his face, he bade goodbye to his deepest muse.