There is nothing but the murmur of your breathing as the silver moon cutting across the darkness spreads its luminous light across white sheets. I am the keeper of the silence. You are the keeper of the sensuous. I kneel beside you on the bed, gazing at your flaxen hair. You are asleep now. I am enthralled.  The rest of the room is in darkness, highlighted only by silver streams, a chiaroscuro by the ghost of Giotto. I kiss you lightly on the forehead. You do not awaken. I begin to pull the white sheet gently from your shoulders to below your knees, a panoply of pulchritude. Silence and darkness and silver streams are timeless. Sleep, dear Sarah. I am the keeper of the silence, a post more regal than a throne, a crown. We are at the epicenter of love. Sleep, dear Sarah, sleep.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks