The straws on the floor were damp and the walls oozing in moldy patterns and moss. We were in the witch pit.
Two men in the devil’s den.
Days came and went through the narrow opening above our head. We were two but only one was talking. His voice had this warm deep tone that wraps itself in your strongest will and melt it away.
I knew he was dying.
Yes his voice was like a ship carrying us deeper into the earth. He barely moved but in his every whispers I could grasp the full extent of his emotions.
She was the lone subject of his stories. Her hair and eyes, the way she carried herself with her fragile neck extended towards all the hopes of time itself. He let me hear her moans and smelled her sweat. He illustrated her dreams and passions, the delicate fangs of her gentle smile.
At the end of it she became as much mine as she was his. Her absence was full like a hologram through our combined visions. She made us one, not two or even three.
She wasn’t beautiful in a classical sense, she was magnificent, powerful, she was the beam lacerating the thick darkness of our prison.
Days kept escaping our grasp, nights smothering our breath and it became harder to even hope but not to love.
When I climbed out…I was alone. His body never resurfaced…when I came out I was still in love with a woman I had never seen but who trickled life back in me.
So I went to search for her.