Elathan's Muse

His jet black hair glistened in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the open window. He layed there on the floor, his head in my lap, peacefully, completely relaxed; the cares of the past and future washed away by the light, soothing breaths of the present. I gazed into his hazel eyes, they seemed black in the ambient light, with sparks of gold fire glimmering from within. I reached down and aimlessly ran my fingers through his soft, tousled hair, playing with the stray tendrils. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment. A smile crept across his face as he slowly closed his eyes. I too smiled. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him and I knew he felt the same way about me.

"If we keep this up, people will say we're up to something." he whipered, amused.

"Fuck 'em." I blatanly replied, laughter within my words.

He chuckled then breathed deep, letting loose a contented sigh.

It wouldn't be the first time we were accused of being less than platonic. It came with the job of being best friends with the opposite sex. The argument had become old and not worth more than a few facetious comments for acknowledgment.

There was nothing sexual about our relationship. A fact I treasured more than anything. What we had was perfect, anything more would destroy everything we had built together in the last 20 years. He, the brother I never had; I, the sister he never had, yet so similar you could swear we were true siblings. That's not to say we didn't have our fights, disagreements and declared all out psychological warfare on each other as kids. As adults, those events are a few and far between.

It's these quiet moments, when the world slips away, when we can just be ourselves, when nothing seems to matter but being in each others presence, that I lived for. These moments were the world's saving grace.

"Time to go, crackhead." I gently reminded.

He groaned and rolled on his stomach, propping himself on all fours and stared at me.

"Have to?" he asked, the glimmering gold in his eyes fading as they grew dark with dismay.

I sighed, "Yeah. You have to get up early, Mr. Hollywood."

He dropped his head, he hair falling over his ears to his chin.

"Yes mother." He gibed.

I playfully smacked him across the top of his head.

He stood, several distinct cracks emanating from his back as he stretched. He reached for me and helped me up, giving me a long, tight hug.

"I'll see you soon." he softly said, with a tinge of guilt, knowing "soon" was relative.

I simply replied, "I know." swallowing the lump in my throat. It could be next week, it could be next year, it could be longer.

He grabbed his black jean jacket, pulling out his Blackberry to turn it back on. He walked to the couch where my husband had fallen asleep and kicked his legs, attempting to wake him up.

"I'm off, Sandman." He said, using the nickname he'd given my husband for his time in the Iraqi desert.

My husband blinked, mumbled and rolled over on the couch; we laughed.

I walked him to the door and he turned to me.

"If you need anything..." he started.

I interrupted him with a shake of my head. I knew what he was going to say. But I didn't need his charity.

Although defeated, he smiled. Parting was always awkward, we never had enough time anymore. Not like we did back in high school, when we had the woods between Glendale Cemetery and the golf course; discussing the fine art of torture in gruesome detail.

"I love you, sis."

"Hang 'em high, bro." I said with a grin.

He snorted in amusement.

I opened the door and he walked out, never looking back. And I didn't stay to watch him leave.

I am his ever present shadow, his creative companion, his shoulder to cry on, his outlet for venting, his ghostly secret... his dark... little... muse.