Having spent the weekend in bed with her, he felt the seconds of the night tick away watching her sleep. It was interesting, like a study of some creature in its natural environs, yet it felt to him as though a sheet of plexiglass seperated the camera from its subject.
Using his index finger, he began to trace the lines on her neck where he would someday cut and taste. There was love, although it was just as much of a nuturing feeling. Nuturing was a burden to some, but when it was her, it was a pleasure, a sick tasting of importance running down the back of his throat.
He continued down to the rib cage, where he made slicing motions with his fingers. Tracing each rib, imagining the cut of the flesh, he shivered in self-pity. "If only I had the chance," he wondered to himself.
She stirred when he reached her stomach. She awoke to glance at him, and gently whispered, "I'm sorry," and proceeded to roll over, exposing her back as she attempted to rest in peace once more. He scanned up and down her spine, and used his pinky finger for a cutting tool, dissecting her piece by piece.
After the moments had played themselves out, he laid back, sighed, and spoke with a queer smile on his face. "I am vivisected, but only with you." Sleep hit him, and the night ended in a procured agony. To him, they were now one, albeit in a million pieces.