I turn on the bed to face him, propping myself up on one elbow to watch him as he sleeps, feeling small and lithe beside him. I touch his skin, and drag my finger down the back of his neck. He smells sweet, and his skin is soft and warm to the touch.

My hand slides from this butterfly caress round to his cheek and curls to cup his head. I put my mouth to his ear and breathe slowly, while stroking my hands through his hair. His short hair curls softly. It looks dark against his skin. I feel a brush at my shoulder, gone as quickly as it came.

At each step my foot sinks into the soft moss. I touch a tree for support. The bark is moist, almost slimy, and I can smell rotting leaves and wet earth. The fog rolls between the trees, transparent tendrils reaching out, but without the ability to hold me. I walk forward through the dusk, through the wet, soft nothingness that surrounds me.