Somniare

He comes at night.

At night when I am alone in my room and the shadows are still, the silence harsh. I leave my thin curtains open now, letting the moonlight flood the room; I had once hoped it would make him disappear, like a frail phantom in the daylight. But he was still there in the light. Still standing there, still beautiful.

He appears not gradually, he appears all at once; I will look away from that corner, even if it is only to blink, but when I look again, he is there.

I first thought it was a trick of the light, a figment of my imagination, perhaps a spirit of some sort… Well, maybe that last one is right. But then all I knew of spirits must be false; ghosts can’t touch, can they? He can touch.

I think I call out to him in the dark, ask him for his name. Somniare. I don’t think he says it. It’s a name that comes to mind when I see him, not something I was told.

Yes, Somniare... Dreams... I long for dreams...

He comes at night. Always at night.

I have never seen him in the light of day, never seen him fully revealed; he is always half veiled in shadows. Sometimes I doubt he is even there.

Sometimes I wonder if it is only my own imaginings in the depth of night. My own creations come to life in my mind. But then... then he touches me; brushes his fingers over my cheek or across my arm, making me shiver.

It has never occurred to me to call out at these times. Despite the appearance of someone in my room, I have never thought while he is there, to call out for help. His presence is not threatening, and even if it were; I can’t help but love his lingering shape, his touch.

His skin is soft, cool like dry mist. His flesh is eerily pale, white to an unnatural extreme. His lips are dark; I think sometimes he looks dead... but these are the thoughts afterwards, he is always simply beautiful when he is there with me.

Interesting how easily my thoughts of him change when he is there; caught in the moment, I suppose. Caught in his web of beauty and stillness, of near silence and solace. Yes, solace...

I wonder if he comes when I am too exhausted to stay awake for him. When I am lost to an empty void of refreshing unconsciousness.

I wonder whether he appears in that corner, as he does when I am awake, and slowly approaches me, asleep on my bed. Whether he approaches without seeming to move, is suddenly closer with no visible steps or movements. Whether he sits beside me, asleep as I am, and brushes his fingertips against the flesh of my cheek. Whether he looks down on me as if sad, but with a smile on his lips, a strange smile of fondness and need, an unfamiliar look haunting his dark eyes. Whether he dips his head, and brushes those dark lips against mine... as he does when I am awake.

His hair is dark, I can see, but the moonlight that fills the room makes it glow; a moonlight halo surrounding his head, giving me my angel. Perhaps that is what he is; my angel. My guardian... Perhaps not. I don’t know.

His touch sends shivers through me...

He is a modern ghost, if that is what he is. He wears a dark shirt and trousers; the shirt only having the lower buttons done up, revealing a good deal of snow-white skin. He wears a chain about his neck, but the pendant is always hidden in the shirt, and when I reach out to take it, he catches my hand and shakes his head; that sad smile lingering on his lips.

We speak but a little, content to simply look at each other; a world of meaning unspoken between us. But when he does speak, his voice is soft, smooth like velvet on marble. Deep and caressing, resonating and very sweet. He does not speak much, though his words are always emblazoned upon my memory; every word precious, rare like fine diamonds and gold.

He opens the window for me. When the nights are warm, sometimes I will nod off and wake to an open window. And when the nights are too cold, I sometimes find an extra blanket upon me, keeping me warm and comfortable. His small gifts, his thoughtful offerings.

He sits on my bed for hours. Perhaps longer than I know of, because I always fall asleep well before the dawn comes. He sits on my bed, looking down at me and smiling that smile, his eyelids drooping slightly, his fingers laced with mine, his other hand’s knuckles brushing my cheek or running through my hair...

Sometimes I close my eyes at the feeling, almost dropping off to sleep. He does not say anything about it, but if I open my eyes again, his silent expression pleads with me; asking me without words to remain awake.

Some nights he only stands by the window, looking out into the night; his expression poignant and deeply thoughtful. The moonlight plays upon his face, casting it in an unearthly glow. I sometimes dream he is my angel.

My guardian angel... why else would he be with me night after night?

He is always there, without fail unless someone else is staying in the same room. Though occasionally I see his form outside the window at these times, his eyes understanding of my need for other companions, or even in his corner, invisible to whomever I have invited into my room. Not a jealous angel then. I think I half wish he would be. That he would wrap me in his arms, and protect me, keep others from hurting me...

Somniare and his white skin, Somniare and his cool touch, Somniare and his affecting smile... Somniare, Somniare, Somniare...

I feel I am obsessed sometimes. In the nighttime hours, I wait for him to appear; wait for his corner to shed its shadows and allow him to materialize for me.

I have grown used to his visitations. I have grown used to the appearances that once worried and haunted me in the daytime. I have come to love the night, the time of shade and shadow; the dark and cooler hours when silence is music and artistic minds are at their best.

He comes at night.

His form a ghostly shadow among shadows, his skin stark against the blackness of the room. His dark eyes gleaming, fixed on me, and his body swamped in an aura of melancholy emotions and sparking intelligence.

The shadows that were stilled before, begin to move; they sweep over the walls, making indistinguishable shapes and figures, watchers of the night, with hidden eyes and a touch that you can almost feel through your thin clothing.

A horror once, no doubt. These moving shadows, these feather touches from creatures you can’t see, but Somniare dwarfs these things; calms the spinning fear, the uncertainty and nervous shudders. In the day I think he does this on purpose. Perhaps to help me trust in him. He truly would not need it; I would love him anyway.

Perhaps he knows that now, because the shadows remain still; it is only Somniare and I now, in the cool and mysterious nights. Him and I, every night; his dark lips half curved into that smile, his dark eyes haunted, his touch cool and soft...

Dreams.

I long for dreams. I wait for night when I can smell the scent of illusion, feel Dream’s fingers in my hair, and his lips on my skin. I dread that this is romanticism, that this is not real.

I fear that I will fall. I shiver in the corner and hope that the feelings will not leave me. But for all my fear and dread and cold need, I find it all ripped from me.

And so the cycle starts again. That endless need for Dreams, and the solace he brings to me. That endless night, that forgotten time, that swamps my mind in the day light hours and gives me reason to shiver, even when it is light.