Ah the muse calls once more...

He likes to keep his palm on my neck while I'm sleeping.
Maybe to feel the pulse.
To feel the life flowing inside of me.
The life that my now peaceful form will not betray.

He calls me an angel.
His ghostly angel.
Asable fable in a perpetuate dream.
Beloved.

An infected mind.
And an obsessive, posessive lover,
In the same turn.

I like to watch him sleeping.
Through hooded lashes, he thinks my view escapes.
He speaks to me like lovers do when they think the other can't hear.

But every word is not lost on me.
For I note it in my mute silenceness.
As his voice swirls around the shell of my ear.
Whispering...
"Beloved."