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Her scent—of roses and spring—permeated his bedroom in a way that made it impossible to concentrate. Factual texts crumbled into meaningless jumbles of ink. The sight of her was just a glance away. Soft skin just a few steps away from being warmth within his palms.
"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair..."
To witness poets and artists unraveled in a chase for beauty and love was something Faust had always scoffed at. How could anyone really dedicate so much effort into the intangible yet so easily broken? Hours on a canvas, burned away; letters on a page, torn up by tragedy, loss, rejection—well, thank goodness anyone who'd known of his previous refusal to love was no longer around to see how far he had fallen.
Because now, looking at her, he realized that art had fallen right into his life and was now fast asleep in his bed. No painting, no portrait nor poem nor scripture in all its words of fairness and beauty seemed to capture what this looked like, smelled like, sounded like, felt like.
"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely..."
The midday's rays were languid honey, flowing in to illuminate flecks of dust and the curves of her body sloping up, down, and up again as though beckoning him forward. Her warmth drew him in as though he were but a frigid traveler in the midst of a snowstorm—but he dared not arise from his desk, lest the creaking of floorboards awake her. For his eyes, there was no such rule. The clock was silent in counting the intimate admiration of her hair, spilled out behind her without a care. The subtle rise and fall of her chest like waves lapping a shoreline, accompanied by the gentlest breaths huffing against the bedsheets.
"Thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead..."
Bedsheets that were draped over her figure like a thin nightgown, wrinkled and loose, but much reminding him of an angel's tunic. Something worn of a Goddess carved in marble.
"Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men..."
Time had become meaningless, but all too soon she was awake again, a gentle sigh and a slow stretch away from being drowsily propped up in bed. The sheets now wrapped around her more like a cocoon. She let out a soft yawn, still adjusting to the new—or… not so new—dawn.
"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away..."
"Did you sleep well?" Faust asked. Now that she was freed from her slumber, he set down the book that had been in his hand, but did not fail to run a ribbon to mark his page.
"Mhm," she murmured in assent, and lifted a hand to rub her eyes, "what time is it?"
"It's nearly noon, Liebling." He replied. Her expression froze, and Faust quickly added, "but it's alright. We've no work to attend to today."
She nodded in understanding as the initial fright faded away. A lazy smile crept up her cheeks, and she let out another contented sigh. It seemed that in her mind was a debate between lying back down or getting up to meet him. Faust secretly wished for the latter. Her drowsy gaze drifted to his desk and fell upon a small but thick book there before him. "Mmm… What were you reading?"
"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue..."
It was a question he might have anticipated, yet it reached for his heart like cold fingers. He hesitated before answering—there would be much explanation required, for this one. His gaze returned to the book and its brown cover seemed to stare back with equal intensity.
"Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee..."
"Are you familiar with the Bible?"
He did not need to turn back to know her reaction. The following slow seconds of incredulous silence were spent in a scramble for words.
"The Bible?" Her voice betrayed a surprise that she was far too groggy to mask. "Of course I am, but—you? You read it?"
A derisive chuckle rumbled in Faust's chest as he picked it up. The old leather seemed to fit into his hand like a worn glove. Was that a smile tugging at the edges of his lips? It was caught somewhere between bitter and nostalgic. The words were chalky on his tongue, "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed..."
Faust had his own demons, some of which he'd made deals with, others who'd chased him in tragedy and nightmares. But no matter how angered, beaten, and thrown down by fate he may have felt, this specific book was one he had never managed to leave behind. Whether he believed in any of it at all, whether he was blinded by loving nostalgia at times and bitter resentment at others, nothing was clear.
"It belonged to Mother."
She waited, listening, and Faust stood up, slowly returning to the bed. The mattress sank as he sat down at the edge, and a cozy smell of home overtook him once again. Though it hadn't been long since they were nestled together, his eternal wait made the proximity all the more fulfilling—and the remaining drowsiness pulled her down in a lean against his shoulder. There was no complaint.
"How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine!"
"I don't read it often; but I suppose when I got up this morning, you reminded me of something," he murmured. He leaned his head against hers, but his eyes never left the book in his hands. "Are you familiar with the Song of Solomon?"
"I don't think so," she replied. Her arm slipped out from her cocoon and around his to hug it against her chest. If only she did that more often. "What is it about?"
"Well, it's…" how could he possibly explain it? A little voice inside reminded him of the ridiculousness of poetry—of the putty of a man she had turned him into. The scripture was not capable of measuring up to her, but at least it could remind him of what this felt like. Faust's words were uncharacteristically soft-spoken as they left his lips. "…if there is any scripture that I feel I can understand, it is that one.”
There was so much he had grown to hate—a book that remained decades untouched for each page seemed to cut him. Faust had lived long enough with a bad taste in his mouth and a burning resentment for his Creator Himself. But it wasn't until he had tasted the milk and honey of her presence that he found the strength to put the daggers away and begin to heal.
"Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck...”
The book was no longer coated in acid—and though it was not all easy yet, at least he could love it for what it was, now. It stopped boring into his gaze and his flesh, but sat there like a shred of mercy. A piece of his beloved Mother, and a memoir to the angel at his side.
He could feel her smile against his shoulder, and she gave his arm a soft squeeze. A wordless reminder that she was there. He knew that for once, this joy was here to stay.
"Maybe you could read it to me sometime."
"One of these days, Liebling," he replied. "One of these days, I will."
He planted a kiss on her forehead.