#215 Purgatory Chasm

by L.D. Rose

The ocean roars its fury, the waves smashing against the jagged rocks below. The moon is massive, a giant flashlight in the dark, spilling all over you like silver oil. Thunder rumbles somewhere off in the distance, signaling an incoming storm, but everything is just so crystal clear now.

You smile at me, your dark hair matted against your forehead, your eyes pitch black in the night. You splash in the water as it roils around you, playing like a child in a pond. You lift your arms up, beckoning me to join you, calling to me but your voice is lost in the din.

I stand at the precipice, the earth still solid beneath my feet, the ground still giving me reason. But the wind runs its fingers through my hair, seductively whispering “dream” against my skull. That’s what you used to tell me, back when you were still warm and breathing, back before you left me for good. And since then, I forgot what it meant, and the way it rolled off your tongue like the sweetest candy.

Your laughter pulls at my heartstrings as I hover over the world, trembling. I’m as brittle as a leaf, afraid to be plucked from her tree. But you’re screaming that it’s okay—it’ll all be over soon—it doesn’t hurt when Poseidon swallows you whole. Spread your wings and fly. We’ll be together again.

With my arms outstretched, I close my eyes and breathe.

Then I finally fall into you.