[ WP ] Write about a museum guard who touches the art

He paced the hallways, keys clinking against his flashlight. His boots made a soft noise against the floor, rubber meeting marble as he paced the length of the corridor. The moonlight shone through a window, illuminating his path and caressing the paintings adorning the walls. He was silent, unwilling to disturb the night's quiet, velvety feel. 
 
 His hand swept through his hair as he passed frame after frame. It was getting more difficult to resist brushing his fingers against them, to linger and run his hands along the edges. To feel the brush strokes ripple beneath his touch and let the canvas whisper its story through tactile sensation. If he could just *feel* the paintings, he was sure he would hear their lives. 
 
 His gaze had been enough, at first. Knowing that he had them all to himself when the sun fell, that he could drink them in greedily and share them with no one. He would solemnly pace by them, one by one, letting his eyes roam and slip from one to the other. It made him feel special, honored. 
 
 Now it was becoming a struggle. He so longed to be closer to them. If he was closer to them, perhaps he could unravel the mysteries that plagued him. Why was that particular stroke so sharp? It cut through the painting like a knife and stole his attention. How did that sculptor smooth the neck of the ballerina just so? Sensuous and long, so soft and yet made of something so stony and hard. Perhaps this was what being religious was like, to be so close to your idea of perfection and yet have no answers, no way to hold it in your hand and study it, feel it. 
 
 Tonight, the moon was particularly bright and it cast a spell upon the gallery, each piece of art becoming nearly enchanted, calling out to him. He felt like he would jump out of his own skin if he did n't give in. 
 
 And so he did. 
 
 He let his hand drift forward, lightly tracing the gilt frame of one of his old favorites. His breath hitched as his fingers danced onto the canvas. There was no turning back now. He felt the paint under his skin, those layers and layers of oil and pigment singing to him as he admired them. His breath left him as he traced the lines of the picture. He felt rapturous, losing himself in the feeling. He did n't know how long he had stayed there, holding the sensation tight and marveling. 
 
 He felt something warm against his cheek and looked over to find the sun's rays brushing against his skin. The spell shattered and he stepped away from the wall. He stumbled onto the visitors' bench, breathing heavily. He had spent the whole night in paradise and now the world crashed around him. In spite of it, he smiled. Tonight he would return, and eventually, he would touch every last thing in this damn museum.
