Sometimes, my heart is too loud.
I wonder if he hears mine.
His nose touches my nose, he is not going to kiss me. We are just hiding.
He could hear my breaths, we ran from a bit away.
My limbs are numb, the adrenaline is wearing off. His hair tickles in the collar, and he smells of sweat and ink markers.
I wonder if he's as soft as I've always pictured. There's sweat on his brow, the hollow sound of the trees rustling branches from above.
My chest heaves another whiff of him, my hand wants to wipe his sweat.
We are alone, him and I. We are alone in this room where the only light is from the moon outside, a sliver of light that is mostly on the floor. I can't see his eyes, only his sweat, and our shoes.
His hand is upon my hand, his is softer than mine. Except for the tips, very hard, and calloused fingertips.
He sows in his spare time, I have never asked him where everything goes. What is the ink smell for? Writing, notating, what?
It's eighty degrees, the woods are dark and lovely, and they smell of back home. We are not back at my home though.
My eyes are adjusting to the dark, his pupils are alert, and on guard. He looks like a prey here, in the open. He should have not come with me, he should have stayed and knew he was of no use to me here.
He was not a survivor, not like me. He would need to learn to fight and to be stronger than now. I could teach him, but what use is it to teach a man to survive when he has never fought for anything? Not the air in his lungs, not water that wants to enter his tongue, not the ground at his feet, nor the fire that wants to burst out of me.
He'll die soon enough, once I'm gone he'll die soon as the sun is up. The woods are lovely but dark. I expect an enemy will grab him, and it'll be done. He leans after a while, forehead to forehead.
"Are you okay?"
He makes me want to laugh, I who have died long ago okay? I must show worry in my face, he thinks I'm scared of the woods, but they are lovely and dark. Home to me, strangers to him.
"I'll kill anything that wants to kill me," All that I say to him.
We remain quiet for some time, his heart now at a steady pace. His hair is kissed by the moon, it glistens like silver or snow. Kill him now, or kill him later, the world does not know. I wait for the answer and wait my turn.
"I'll- I'll always wish that I told you from the first," He whispered on my cheek, my nose bridge touching his own.
"I would have killed you," I replied.
"I would have been better," He tried to smile but only came a grimace. He believed what he meant, that it would have been better. That I do not know.
We stay silent, I can hear the trees again. I ponder at his words, and the truth in them. His belief that it would have been better to be a dead man.
"Would you have tried to stop me?" I ask him.
"No." He looked at my eyes, fierce loyalty in them.
Who was he was he, not his family his Father's Son? His Uncle's Nephew? I did not know, but I know I would have hated myself if I killed him. This Moon-Kissed Man glistens like silver or snow.
Who was he? I do not know.
