I watch as you sleep next to me—your mouth slightly parted and body arched, seemingly reaching for something to grasp. I slowly traced the creases on the bed until my fingers slightly brushed yours. A sudden jolt surged through my chest, and I pulled away at once.

It's terrifying to try to hold you when I am uncertain if you are still alive or already slipping away. 

Last night, you asked me what it's like to love someone who no longer breathes. 

"Suppose I die," you say. "Will you make a taxidermy out of me? Then, will you kiss me?"

I never knew what to say. That night, I imagined the warmth leaving your skin. As I press my head into your chest, the beating is no longer there. 

If I hold you long enough, will you go back to life? Or does love only belong to the living? My heart recoiled at the thought of you dying, of you leaving—of love leaving. 

But what is love if not a desperate act to keep everything alive? 

So I must strip your skin. I will reach inside, my hands slipping through the heat that used to be you. I will carefully peel your flesh that clings so nothing else decays. 

Then, I will stitch you back together. I imagined that this is what love must be—an act of holding on, of refusing to let go. This is love, isn't it?

And if I must love, I will carve a portion of you just to still see you whole. 

Your arched body straightened as you moved in your sleep. This time, as I held your hands, I did not pull away. 

We knew it anyway. Our love will never die. We would skin each other and hollow our skulls out. 

I will kiss you as proof that we are alive. We will forever be. 

- Kristine Aimee Millonte
(Illustrated by Chynna Mae Santos/FEU Advocate)