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Danielís Office:  A Postscript.

Debi C


As I lay in bed in the darkened room, in my mind's eye I can still see him.

Captured by 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. 

The body, 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. 

And there 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?

The End

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