Exploring that idea of "love"

Inspired

His arms will enfold my slender shoulders, drawing my head to rest in the perfectly shaped nook on the right side of his broad chest. I feel so tiny and safe. He will squeeze tightly without regard to the size I seem to have, and I will always return it, my arms reaching beneath his, up his back, gripping his shoulders. His hands slow their stroking of my arms. 
You're so soft.
I submit a small indistinguishable noise. He returns his own version. We exchange a series of the sounds which comprise a sort of language we have created. Giggles from me as I release my head from his chest. A new smile I've begun to see only recently is offered to me. It is something gentler - only so slightly different from what I had grown accustomed to. Difficult to pinpoint. Maybe in giant bluish green eyes as they simultaneously promise to protect and wound me.
I am greedy for more of this affirmation, aware of my fortuitous good luck that this man wants to hold me. It is a kind of touch with which I was not acquainted. A soft orange heat which, at first contact, disperses across my wintery skin, then swells into deep waves which roll, a time-altering slow, through my blood and muscles. When they reach my bones I know I am at home. Tightly wound into him, I search for ways for all of my body to be touching his, to be cocooned in his, in him.
We are silent for centuries. Praying to the moon: please don't leave. Let this be the night you decide to stay forever.
Stillness.
Our breathing settles into a nocturnal cadence.
We wake to dark blue fog.
What time is it?
We become aware of the sounds of people shouting in the street.
What has happened?
Where has it gone?
We scramble for just enough clothing to avoid embarrassment. We stop short on the street. Wide-eyed, he pulls me close, my hand flying to his chest (I trust you). The rumors fly for hours, and the blue fog refuses to clear. 
A mother nearby absent-minded whispered to her small son that it was noon. 
That's when the messenger came. A nondescript young man on a horse shouted to the street for our attention.
The sun has been slain in it's bed by anarchists! Revolutionists who had grown tired of slaving away to the western civilization's stern diet of sleep and overwork. Dreamers who did not want to be restricted to their allotted 8 hours of sleep under the rigorous management of the sun's personal schedule.

We mourn the sun with the millions who, like us, awoke to the unforeseen tragedy. Afterward, the millions stand. Staring at each other. Not knowing what to do next. Some people are sitting in the grass. Some are milling, hands shoved in pockets. A low rumble of inquiries begins to overcome the crowd.
Should we go back to bed until a new one comes?
A "new one"?
What if a new one never comes?
Should we go about our day?
I have to work in a half hour!
I have an appointment at 10:30!
Surely no one should work today?
Well, someone ought to call and make sure.
Who are we supposed to call?

Sensing our unease, and eager to show he had no part in this, the moon urges Orion and Cassiopeia and the others to guide us back to our homes after the funeral, and task themselves to assure we estranged children of the late civilization.

He and I are met by the jovial duo Castor and Pollux. I tuck myself under his arm, nuzzling into the nook I have come to trust was made for me. Pollux regards me with affection and approval, relishing in the beauty that is the release of one's soul to the mercy of another's.
And it is in this moment that my fear of our lost world seems to me a foolish and trite worry. Old cares fade into obsoleteness.
Money. Image. Insecurities. Jealousy. My bones and blood force them out of my pores, mouths wide in anguished screams as they drip and disappear to the thirsty earth. Deaf, I don't look back.
Melting in the swirling warmth of his body touching mine, I swear aloud never to grieve for the slavery of the old culture. Their duty achieved, Castor and Pollux grip hands as they disappear into the deepening purple night toward their next wanderer. In one slow motion, he stops walking, abandons my shoulders with the same arm whose hand would breathe down my arm, fingers sliding through mine, gently requesting
stop. be here with me in this moment. i am with you. i understand you. i am yours.
Our minds and voices have abandoned their functions in this peaceful purple eternal hour. Instinct swears to be our guide. She coos directly to the muscles that are floating loosely in our blood, waiting to be willed.