The Fall

by Tal Bauer

breathing finally evening out. Warmth bleeds outward from where he settles against me, and he shifts just enough for his nose to nudge behind my ear. He hums low in his throat, his arms tightening around my waist. I don’t need to look at him to know he’s watching me. His lips brush my skin as he says softly, “I’ve got you.” The candles gutter on the dresser. Their light slides over his shoulder and across the rumpled line of his jaw. Damp hair clings to his brow, and sweat cools on our skin. His breath stirs the hair at my temple. “I love you,” he whispers. “Never forget that.” I close my eyes for a heartbeat, long enough to feel his lips on my brow. If this is what forever tastes like, let it linger; let it echo. “Say it again,” I breathe into the dark. His lips find the shell of my ear. “I love you.” Then softer, like a secret: “I love you.” Once more: “I love you.” Three times, like a spell. “I will never forget you,” I promise. If love could anchor us, we’d never fall. But time doesn’t suspend itself for love.