He had the facial expression of a man who had never Looked into another's eyes and seen the world through the widened lens of affection. Existing effortlessely with dark features and imperfect structure; contact between our eyes was not broken unless by my own means of motion. He held no hesitation in kissing me back, but felt no hast in instigating such things himself.
He laid next to me on noisy articles of linen, our bodies close enough to feel their distance if our eyes had indeed been closed, but nevertheless, not coming into contact with each other. He looked at my lips and asked
"Have the memories of others before myself made you cold?"

I was initially unable to speak: self-contained then, in the wounds I denied of existence, and complacent in my new and difficult world. My hands laid in front of myself, cupping pools of Blood which were not of my own. I separated my mouth from my head and saw the reflection of my voiceless and cowardly face in the small burgundy reservoirs; dripping, yet making no sound as they fell modestly onto the lightly colored bedspread.

"Look now, how softly the cold rain hits the feverish pavement outside of this room, yet how much steam it produces," I stated at last.