For: A kiss on the back
There’s something almost holy about her skin; it’s pale and dewy-soft, almost translucent in its alabaster hue, like light and sun and all the constellations tattooed into the skies. The paleness of her flesh, illuminated by his starry children, brings sweet torture to his heart; the sort of melancholy that one must carry in his soul, to be reminded of divinity.
He’s quite hallowed himself if the mood strikes him; stars in his eyes, a halo of black gold upon his head. It doesn’t take much these days for him to remember that he was once an angel; it’s no hardship to recollect his days of heavenly worship - not when she’s a sacrament to which he bends the knee.
She comes to him at night when all is still and kisses at his back, between his ever itching shoulder blades, her fingers soft against his skin.
He loves her then, in length and in devotion, and when the light does come - there’s little motion - aside from blessed thrum -
- in blood, and peaceful hum, and then, at last, it’s silent -
- his heart is dumb.