Sleeping.

If you fell, I'd be there to catch you. To hold you. I'd wrap you in a blanket and clasp you tightly to my chest, sharing body heat, keeping you alive. I'd lie with you for hours, my love. Watch the blood spill across the sky, watch the wound congeal and turn into a dark scab. I wouldn't be afraid to hold your arms back and stop you from scratching it. Your screams of anguish would fall on deaf ears, my darling. I know you want to open old scars and see them fester and rot, but I hate the smell of pus.

The night seems long, but it is not long enough. You become an angel in your sleep. The canyons of fear, the gulfs of worry just dance off your face when the shutters come down. Every so often, you'll softly lift your hand and press it to your upper lip. You sigh like this-aaah and then you scrunch up your nose like a little rabbit. This image is a photograph in my memory, sweetheart. When the epitamy of all innocence and gentle content is encapsulated on your face, to keep in a transparent filmy section of the album, ready for when the daylight burns up these ideologies.