I was left alone with Mea Amata in my hands.

The hotel site settled quietly around us like the

aftermath of a terrible battle. I felt my breaths slowing to tranquil waves as I cradled her warm
body and looked her over, carefully spotting the tiny cuts and bruises that blemished his
otherwise perfect skin. I saw a tiny cut along her left cheek. Gently, I raised a hand to her face.

As soon as my hand touched her silken complexion, everything within me froze. The reality of
the moment caught up with me on thundering wheels. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, and
it was in perfect cadence with hers. I had come to understand what I could or couldn't afford in
life, but what of the both of us? The elegies may not have a divine purpose for me. But angelic
moments such as this?

I brushed her hair aside. Her golden face hung like a sleeping infant in the noonday glow.
Something so beautiful hardly deserved to be so alone. It was selfish of me to believe. But I
didn't care. I no longer thought.

I was leaning over. I held her gently towards me until our foreheads made contact. I never felt
like melting so much before. I nuzzled her, I cherished her. My limbs were shaking, buckling,
but her presence was my anchor, pulling me closer towards her until I felt her tender breaths
against my muzzle.

That was what broke the dam. With gentle sobs, I worshipped her, my tears christening her
forehead like a holy river between us. She was so warm, so fragile, so alive. I wished that I could
be alive too. Angels visit this earth sparingly for a reason. They need terribly blissful moments
like this to remind them what's worth protecting, for it is all too often something incapable of
possessing, unlike this moment—a memory that shall stay alive forever in the center of my
wilting spirit, that I shall never allow to implode for as long as I'm alive to preserve it.