Office: A Postscript.
As I lay in
bed in the darkened room, in my mind's eye I can still see him.
moonlight he lies sleeping, his head on his pillow. The golden brown hair
tousled from his nocturnal movements. I can imagine the arch of the eyebrows and
the edging of long, thick lashes that frame the expressive sapphire eyes. They
are closed in slumber, the delicate translucent skin at his temples with the
tiny crows feet brackets those eyes, those windows into an ancient soul.
There is a
faint shading of peach across the cheekbones with a dusting of light golden
freckles across the perfect nose. The full cupid bow lips that promise ecstasy
and taste of passion are rose colored perfection. They belie the firm stubborn
jaw line that defines his tenaciousness. From
the strong column of the neck, to the broad spread of the shoulders to the
gracefulness of his movements.
like the face, is a fusion of conflict. It bespeaks strength, tenderness,
resoluteness, and irresistible energy. The skin is pale and soft in some areas,
tanned and calloused in others. His
arms, which have become more powerful in the passing years segue into the
slender, sensitive hands and long delicate fingers.
Fingers that can trace delicate wall carvings, caress fragile artifacts
and drive me mad with his touch. There
are the broad shoulders that flow gracefully into the narrow flat waist, the
strong hips and to the delectable ass. Then,
comes the powerful legs and sturdy feet that can run swiftly, carry a heavy
burden, leap into danger or stand foursquare for principalís sake.
are the scars, blemishes on a silken canvas.
Some from his careless youth spent so far away; and some are from our
adventurous life together that we shared. Because
my friend, my love is a man who can no more stand idle and watch evil or
stupidity take place than he can flyÖand he indeed will run, has run where
angels fear to tread.
Oh, my love! I role over in my desolate bed and open my eyes to the empty pillow where he should be lying asleep. I pull his pillow to my chest and wrap my arms around it. I inhale his scent, burying my face in the linen. He's not dead, I know he's not. I've seen him, I still feel his existence. But he is gone from me, none the less. I weep the tears of the inconsolable: for my lost, fallen, angel, love. Where are you?
to Jack and Daniel.