We had only just met. Autumn’s sun painted heavy shadows behind us and already I was too warm. We sought sanctuary, walking amongst the aisles of the aggrandized in eternal homes, more intent on exploring the inner passages of each other than those of the necropolis.

Angel In Waiting

In the shade we sat upon the steps of the tomb of the family Prat.

“You know nothing about me,” I said.

“I know a lot about you.”

“How so? Did you google me?”

“No.”

“Then you know nothing about me.”

“I know you from your words.”

“From your first message I felt as if you were courting me.”

“I am.”

He pierced me with his gaze as if he might part the veils and strip me of defenses: my nervous laughter; rapid-fire questions to keep him talking. Perhaps the cousins to the words that brought us together could explain why and predict the future. But the air filled with incomplete thoughts, half-formed sentences, jagged phrasing softened by tender possibility. No safety in answers.

We are travelers, walking among the dead, seeking companionship, collaboration for a profound inner journey however brief. We are searching for something to stop us from becoming ashes to dust from the inside out before our time.

Ghost Poet

Wanted. Apply within without reservation. Be willing to travel into the depths of another without a map. Arrive armed only with a compass that points true.

“Who are you?”

“I am the man who wants to be with you.”

He lay his back down on the cool marble, head at my feet, and shifted his gazed toward the sky between the sepulchral structures.

I suppressed the desire to lean over and place my mouth upon his.