by Gayle Eden
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I stand beside the bed, at dawn, gazing down at her face in repose. Her sleep is as sweet to me as those moments we made love—some second that our eyes met in the slow merge of our bodies and rise of pleasure, when I felt the essence of life gathering, and saw the echo in her shimmering gaze.
It released from me in a kind of white quickening that brought a moan to her lips, a tremor in her frame. She whispered “life” the same moment it went through my own mind.
I see her, the vivid flush to her cheeks, the richness of her hair and skin, the beauty of her. Yet I see her in my mind’s eye, through time, through the past, and I wish I had rescued her, healed her, and loved her, as I allow myself to now.
I think of how she touches me, tastes me, takes me, and I see the contrast between that pull towards death, and the light and life she breathes from her soul to mine.
Those months I was away, I always sought a quiet place to seek her, remember, imagine. When my mother asked, I was unashamed to admit how I felt.
She understood. I knew it was love, right, true, real. I knew by the look on her face when she spoke of my father, of their passion, and her torment at giving me up, having to leave him and rebuild her life. She understood.
I set on my haunches. My hand reaches out to stroke Gabriella’s hair. Her exotic scent mingled with our joining, teases me.
Slowly her lashes part and I realize that she has sensed me for the time I have stood here.
Her hand captures mine and she lays it upon her breast.
I mean to say, I love you, and yet she steals it from my mind. A smile teases her lips. She knows, I think, that it means everything—so much, things I cannot speak.
I rise and climb into bed. I must feel and hold her, breathe her, and remind myself it is not a dream.
She turns in my arms, her own going around me. I hear, just before sleep, the faint sigh, and whisper of my name.
Her love is palpable, strong, as open, and free as her passions. I drift into dreams. I see us as if looking down, nude, wrapped in that colorful shawl, bodies twined, and mouths tasting, arms holding. We are feeling life and creating it, all the hues, and colors. The wind sings around us. We rise and soar… on the wings of passion….
Raith LeClair, Lord Montovon.
THE END
