Moth to a Flame.
“The sun.”
“The sun?”
There's a moment spent in a complete silence. He stared at the way light casted a soft halo above your head, and smiled. “The sun.”
You were there, sitting still. Your eyes were closed, but he could feel your breathe; warm against his ear, noisy against the emptiness of his heart. Sometimes, he wondered about how the Deities above must have been harboring massive love and care for you, with the way They craved your nose; a home he would always come home to after a long day at work, or the way they paint your eyes dark and deep. Like a pool he would always let himself get drowned in.
You were beautiful, and he knew that far in his head.
“The sun is a lonely entity, don't you think?”
“He is?”
You laughed, and he could feel his chest expanded. It's always lovely the way you filled his quiet life with colors. But you did not know that.
“He is a lonely creature.”
But you have him. You, had him. He was there, always there. Within your presence. Like a plague that's been trying to feed off your fears. Creeping up behind the shadows so that he could kiss your neck before midnight come. So that he could leave you something he thought you would like. At the first, you were scared. Who wouldn't be? But he was gentle. He was kind. He kissed your eyelids before bed time. He pecked your knuckles before the dream land kidnapped you away from this world. He worshipped you; in ways you thought you'd never like, but had came to love anyway.
“He can live within me.”
And you raised your eyebrow; curious on how he would do that.
“And he'll never feel lonely anymore.”
“Never?”
“Never ever.”
Have he told you about what is his most favorite thing to do? You'd say he hadn't. Because it is a secret he would like to keep until the day he die. You don't really know that, but it is to listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat. It is calming, he would reason with a colleague. Like sitting behind your window to stare at the rainfalls, or reading your favorite bed time stories before you close your eyes.
Home, he ever told you, as he laid himself atop of your chest, ear kissing your tee easily. He did that every night. Listening like a tentative little baby, over your beating heart.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Are you hungry?”
You waited until his giggle reduced into few chuckles; he looked ethereal like that, sitting in between your legs, as he kissed his way up your stomach. Sinking his fangs deep, and you thought he looked pretty like that.
“Hungry of you,” he admitted against the soft skin of your chest, “yes.”
You used to giggle everytime his lips grazed upon your ribs. You thought he's so silly, and would grant him a kiss on the forehead for being the sweetest. And he'd kiss you square on the mouth; like a starving birds, devouring your lips like there's no tomorrow. And you found yourself loving every bits of it.
You often wondered how did your heart taste; you had hoped it would cure his thirsty mouth, that it would conquer the hunger that creeped across his skin. Because it is the life that you gave willingly. Because it is the life you wouldn't mind losing if that meant you would prolong his own.
And as you settled comfortably on the floor of his stomach, you thought that, ah, you don't really mind to live within him.
Rumthea, 3.18 am.