Touching you inside was a religious experience, horrific and deeply real. Even as the seconds rushed by and I massaged your quiet heart with my naked hands, I could smell the rusty smell of blood, taste the tang of its mist and feel the warmth of your recently stilled flesh. My heart was willing yours, coaxing it... "beat, please beat, pump, beat, thump," faster and faster it sang out, begging yours to join it. My eyes were salty my hand was shaking from the pressure of walking a delicate line between not crushing your heart and pumping hard enough to make it start.
Your eyes were closed and your angelic face was perfectly still and silent. But, my fingers, urgently probing for any sign of motion, felt something - a skip. I knew you would come back if I asked you just the way you wanted to be asked. I felt a slight pulsing beneath the pads of my fingers and my heart leapt, but I never saw your eyes open. Instead, mine opened to the blaring siren of my cell phone alarm. I crawled out of bed and stood in the shower, shivering. I nearly picked up the phone to hear your voice, but realized that it made no sense. We were no more connected than we were in the moments before I drifted to sleep with only thoughts of another in my mind. I hope all is well with you.
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