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Every day was a reminder. A yearning. I sleep next to him, and rise next to him, and yet I know. I know am in possession of the warmth he lacked. It is also my claws stained with blood, not just my teeth. I have heard mere whispers of him, the me before I was myself, but nothing too much. I do not press--I never do. The pain on my beloved's face is equal to the pain in my heart that I feel when I see such a twisted expression. He hurts. Every day he hurts. I don't. I won't.
I am just sorry I cannot be him.
Decades my beloved went without. Yearning, grieving, missing--he still does. I am not a fool. I hear the way he cries in the night when he believes he is alone; the "Joseph" that rolls off his tongue when we make love is not my name, but another's. The one before me didn't have the... Additional possessions for intimacy and reproduction that I do.
I am reminded even without my beloved's company that I cannot and will not ever be him.
I can go out in the sun, and I can enter my beloved's abode without requesting permission. A stake in the heart would only gravely wound me unless received particularly violently. I do not just bite, I howl. I am not a bat, but a wolf.
I still am not him.
"I love you," he says to me through tears, sitting curled up so small in my lap. So small. He is dwarfed by my own size. He wouldn't be so small curled up to him. I am yet reminded I cannot be him. His hands desperately and feebly caress my fur-dusted skin, trying to grasp for a body long since departed from this realm. His crimson eyes glitter like rubies through the watery tears obscuring them.
I cannot be him.
"I love you, Joseph," he babbles softly, voice cracking and breaking. Presses shaky, wet kisses to my lips and anywhere else he can reach. His mask is off, yet I cannot take delight in this reprieve. How else is he to beg for forgiveness if he will not even offer me his flesh against mine? I merely hold him close, as I always do, and allow him to air out his grievances. "I hope you know. You don't have to be anyone you're not. I know you're not him--I know, I know, I'm sorry I can't treat you the same. But I love you. I love you. Please believe me, I love you."
Somewhere, deep within my heart, I know it is not me he is trying to convince, but himself. I am lucky to even be graced with his touch, so I do not reply if only to comfort and reassure. I hush and kiss his rosy flesh in turn, petting and stroking reverently. I know you do not love me, but it's okay. I promise it is okay. All I ever want is the privilege to love you.
I am not him. Neither of us could help this.
I wrap him into a bone-crushing embrace, squishing a bitten out wail from his reddened lips. He is not often so emotional. I try my best to let him get everything out while he can... Before he becomes the same hollowed out husk he tends to be. I want him to be able to feel something--if not the love I yearn for so badly, then something. Anything. I just want to see him smile someday.
I promise I am not angry. I never have been. From the moment you confided your woes with me, I knew. I believe I always knew. It is okay, my beloved.
I am not him, but I swear on my very soul I will try to hold you like he used to until my last, dying breath.
I know you do not love me. It is okay. But I love you. And I always will, my dearest Aesop.