His Skin

I really liked his grave. The cemetery overlooked a deep lake where birds flew all around. The little grove around the church was also perfect. It wasn't too thick, too wild, too sparse, or manmade. It felt and looked, well, natural and beautiful. The grounds themselves were pretty well-kept. Most of the other tombstones had flowers laid before them. Some roses here, violets there, special bouquets of dozens of colors, and others with broken stems and fallen petals. And then there were his. Every three days I've come and left one dahlia. The color never mattered. He always said I knew which color would make him happy. Today it was pink.

I set it down. My fingers always hesitated to let go, but I slid them away each time with a little sigh. Then I sat with my arms crossed and my back against the stone. Legs outstretched and feet lightly rocking. I enjoyed taking in the peace and quiet. After a few minutes, I started telling him about the last three days. The food I ate, the chapters I'd read, the dreams I'd had and whatever else I could think of. Every little thought trickled out like a broken tap. My words disappeared into the cut grass and polished stones, but I knew he could hear me. Maybe he even felt me.

I brought my knees to my chest and scanned the empty grounds. It was just him and me. It's sad that so many stones are left untouched after some time. I know people move on or can't make the time, but I can't imagine doing that to him. He was everything to me. His voice calmed the violent storms in my mind. His smell wrangled my nerves and steadied my heart. His smile stopped my rambling spirals. His touch, oh, his touch. His embrace. They took me home. He brought my soul to rest for once in the unending uphill struggle. I thought he'd be the end of those struggles. I believed in something divine again because he was nothing like the reality I endured. He was a security and escape that breathed life back into my decaying spirit. It was nearly perfect.

For so long, he helped me heal, feel, and grow. At least that’s what I convinced myself. There was something else in me that grew as he loved me. Something that I never knew I wanted, no, I needed. When I laid with him, and my normal struggles melted into meaningless muck, a need scratched at the seams of my skull. While he squeezed my arm and rubbed my back with his eyes closed, I stared into his chest. Every time I did, the scratching turned frantic. My heart would race, but then I’d bury my face against his body. Slowly, the scratching would relax but I still felt it. He would squeeze me tight and hum because I never told him that my reaction wasn't from my usual burdens. Over time, the scratching got louder, and its nails pulsed in agony.