Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Inanimate Object

I can't wait for her to come home. When she is gone, I miss her terribly. Her smell lingers on my surface, teasing me with the remnants of her existence. I can't do much for her, I don't have much to offer. But what I do have I give her with all that I am.

It is maddening that she will never know the passion that I have for her---how I live each day just to be with her. It is my burden and my joy to be in this existence. Whatever I may have been in another life is eclipsed by what this life holds for me now. She invades me until every fiber of my being is intoxicated with her---only her.

When we are together, I treasure her every sigh of pleasure and contentment. I cradle her face and embrace every tear, every sob until she is overwhelmed by comfort. When she sleeps in my embrace I watch as her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheekbones, peace etched so deeply in her slumber that I am content. This is what I can give her; this is my gift to her life.

I long for the moments that I am ablaze with the heat from her body. I feel only cold when she is away. I languish in my pining as the shadows grow long on the floor. Sometimes I feel sheer agony when I can hear her and I know she is near me but she is still so far away. In those moments, I fight the resentment that tries to turn me stiff and cold. I do not want to ruin the one thing I alone can offer her with petty frustrations at my lot in life. It is enough to serve her as I do.

Even now, as her hair is swept across me, I feel nothing but compassion and the need to protect her. I want only to sooth away her aches at the end of each day. I am heartened by her reluctance to leave me each morning. I know I am loved.

Here I lay, in the bed of her most vulnerable moments. I cradle her head as she sleeps with all that I am. It is enough.

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