His long fingers traced every line and curve of my face, exploring my closed eyelids, the outline of my jaw, my blistered lips. The room felt dark but it may not have been, with me on the floor and his hands and fingers touching me, as if we were speaking then without the need for words.

We lay upon a large rock, the waves of the ocean gentle and comforting. It was hard against my back, an angle of the rock jutting out at the wrong spot, the cold making its way through my thin sweater. I held my body stiff, though, my arm resting against his and my whole body cold except for the burning warmth of his arm. Aware only of that innocent touch and so afraid he might take it away, not caring that a dozen shooting stars crossed the night skies.

Before then, I never knew what it was to see a person glow. His body was golden, a translucent, beautiful golden. His naked body was beautiful against the bleakness of the room, and it was as if all the love, all the pain, all the words I've ever said to him and all the ones left unspoken were centered on that one moment.

And yet still, even then, it was as if I viewed it all as an observer. All the moments I'd been waiting for, waiting for his touch. Demanding his touch. Forgotten.

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