Winged Eros lays before me, asleep, small fist curled next to cheek, wings furled at his sides. Locks of hair fall over his smooth brow and frame his boyish face. If I touch him, might he awaken from his sleep? Might he blink, just once, for me? My fingers tremble above him, dancing on the air an inch above his breathless body. Indeed he has not breathed in a thousand years; he has never felt the kiss of breath. He has never felt the warmth of daylight, for even golden sunbeams cannot warm a heart of marble. But look—his skin is aglow in the morning light, and his lashes that seem to tremble only when I blink, are illuminated. Dew glistens on his unlined face like tears—or perhaps they are only the last drops of midnight rain. The hour is early still; I will let him sleep a moment longer.