A Conversation

A Conversation
October 17, 2006

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He knelt down, genuflecting himself as if before an altar. He looked up at her.

She looked down at him. She looked, but did not see. Or she saw, but did not look. Her eyes were always open, with that blank, milky stare.

He touched the hard wood of the chair, placed his head on her lap, closed his eyes and sighed. He reached blindly for her hand, but like some elusive phantom, it evaded his grasp.

Perfection.

Raising his head, he searched her face for meaning, but he found none. He searching for solace, but found despair. He searched for peace, but found agony. Such irony to the damned.

He took both her hands between his own. They were as cold as the dead moon, as icy as his heart, as still as the night air. But in them, he found meaning alike his own, reason that matched his mind, feeling that strummed the heartstrings of his soul.

With hesitation, he stood, slowly, as if unsure whether she would take offense.

He leaned in, looking into her gaze, letting himself be drawn in by that unblinking stare. He touched her face with his warm hands, and felt a chill run down his spine at the coldness of her beauty.

He touched her lips with his own.

Her mouth was dead, her lips unresponsive, her tongue as still as a sliver of ice... and yet, it still invoked some passion within him, some deep primal urge.

He separated his mouth from hers. He could taste her essence, he could feel her spirit, he could hear her voice on his trembling lips and tongue.

He looked up at her face, that perfect face. As perfect in death as it was in life.

Standing, he looked away with remorse, regret, and a longing that would only be satisfied the next time they spoke.

He opened the door, letting light stream into the room. He took one last look at her beauty, then turned away.

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He touched his tattered gloves to his face, and turned his head towards the falling stars.

As he felt the wind pass through his hair, and the setting of another day.



Note: No I do not have dead bodies that I make out with in my basement. That's why it's called fiction. Hope you enjoyed this. Or, er, you know. It creeped you out. As Halloween approaches, I'll try to scare you and myself a little more each day XD.