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Treasure (Courfeyrac): March, 1829
Daniel sleeps lightly, most of the time, but tonight he's worn out, and the lamplight falling across his face seems to bother him not at all. When I touch his cheek, his bare shoulder, he does not stir. His skin is smooth and faintly dry; his hair smells of paint and dust. Everything about him suggests austerity, a paring down to the core. He is a saint on the wall of some old chapel, angular and pure; he is a yellow wildflower, tough-stalked and tenacious. Beside him I feel coarse, excessive, vulgar, all flesh and its mundane demands, all weakness and dissolution. Daniel sparkles, always, with the clear, clean light of his spirit. And he kisses me, tasting of water; he holds me in his arms as roots hold the earth, as heaven holds the moon, outside in the limitless darkness, and I can feel his heartbeat, strong and serene. Nothing hidden, my Daniel, no artifice, no affectation. How did such a treasure come to me? Why am I so lucky, that he stays?
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