First attempt for this site - hopefully I haven't made it too heavy (or too light).

It's an experiment in mood and prose poetry rather than plot - so enjoy it for what you can get from it, reviews may make me feel like writing more (or less, who knows?)

In Sleep He Sang to Me

In sleep, he makes it almost too hard to breathe.

He seems so young, so fragile.

Sharp, delicate cheekbones beneath flawless alabaster skin. His soft, oh-so-kissable lips parted slightly, the cupid's bow of his mouth quivering as his breath enters and leaves. The rise and fall of his smooth , carved marble chest.

It is hidden, now, beneath the crumpled, faded t-shirt he wears.

In his sleep the crisp cotton sheet has fallen slightly, revealing a crescent of skin upon the boy's back, where said t-shirt has ridden up from the slight movements of his dreaming.

The skin there is as flawless as that of his face.

The gentle sweep of his back, the curve of his spine, the swell of his buttocks beneath the grey sweatpants, all this beauty revealed and unguarded beneath the soft light of the not-quite-full moon. His hair lies across the pillow, tousled and untamed – such a far cry from the waking state.

In sleep he seems a creature from a dream.

In action he screams with life and emotion.

Despite the soft, gentle stillness of his current form – the keen observer can see – the subtle play of muscles beneath his outflung arms, the oh so slight bruises barely visible on his well articualted feet. Dancer's feet, walker's feet – the feet of one to whom fashionable footwear is no stranger.

In action he moves like a dancer, like a panther. No, not like a panther – for even they have to touch the ground sometimes. In action he moves like an angel. He floats through the world, and world seems to move itself for his convenience.

In action his eyes flash, every colour and none. Grey, blue, green – they change with his mood, with his clothes, with the thoughts of those who dare to meet that fierce gaze. Are eyes really the window to the soul? If they are then this boy has plate glass picture windows that soar from cellar to rooftop, barely containing the light the rises from the angel's heart within.

No wonder an angel's first words to those it greets are invariably Fear Not

In sleep the eyes are closed, and it is now safe to look upon the other perfections of his form.

Without the danger of becoming consumed utterly by the power of those eyes it is possible to linger on the soft, lustruous hair which lies on the pillow, the long, almost feminine lashes. The faint blush beneath the skin of his long neck. The movement of those coral lips...

The spark of light as his eyes open and note the regard of his silent observer.

Oh, there you are,

the boy who is watching feels his soul begin to melt

I've been looking for you forever.