Speak softly.

The birds are singing outside the window. The sun is peeking through the gaps of the curtains, kissing the silky skin of your nude body that I can still feel on my finger tips. The traces of the thunderstorm that had grounded all flights and allowed me to be here with you is being chased away by the warmth of the rising star in the morning sky.

The curve of your hip, where I had gripped tightly with my hand only hours ago, is hugged loosely by the white feather down blanket tangled in your legs. The wool socks you pulled on to protect your feet from the evening chill were never removed. The fire that had provided our only light and cast our silhouettes on the wall, long since spent.

The breeze whispers in, making the curtain dance to the music of your windchime, disturbed only by the scratching of charcoal and fluttering parchment. The frosty air nips at exposed flesh and sends a shiver up your back. I am entranced, pausing in my sketch as I admire the ripples of your muscles under your skin, delicate, yet masculine. It is a rare moment of peace, a reprieve from the chaos of war.

Your eyes blink open and your smile reflects the brightness of the morning sun. You say nothing, but your eyes are drawn to the sparkle of the medals and abhorrent German cross on my uniform jacket draped over a chair across the room.

You glance at the glowing window, a shining beacon over Paris that is dimmed by the slight frown that appears on your face, and my heart clenches. Your teeth nibble on a raw lip and mossy eyes look back at me. Inside, I beckon the rain to return. Please, don’t disrupt the beauty of the profound silence with the knowledge that with the sun, I must go.

I rise and watch as your eyes travel over the expanse of my equally undressed body. When our eyes meet again, your face lights up, making the sun pale in comparison. They twinkle and call me forward.

Nothing has ever felt more like home than your presence. Sweet kisses of impossible promises we intend to keep. The gentle taps of lingering droplets on the window are the desperate cries for time to freeze. I can’t fly in the rain.

We don’t dwell on the inevitable. The morning is too fragile, time too short, for words. When you open your mouth, I hold my finger to it. All we need to say can be read within one another’s eyes and touch as we get lost, together, once more.

Speak Softly.

Deimos Shinra currently lives outside Salem, OR with his wife, Erin, and son, Nero. Whenever possible, Deimos and his family enjoy cosplaying or listening to their favorite true crime and paranormal podcast together. As a member of the LGBTQ+ community, Deimos writes stories with characters that capture the diversity within it. He graduated from Willamette University with his BA in English and Creative Writing and is currently enrolled in Southern New Hampshire University's MFA program for Creative Writing.