Page 93 of Poetry By Dead Men
“Of course I remember,” I say, the memory leaving me a little breathless.
He nods. “Back then, I thought you were drawn to the sad stuff. I didn't understand why most of the things you read left me feeling so hollow and empty.”
I want to argue with him that the poems I loved weren’t sad ones. Or, that maybe they were a little sad, but they were also beautiful. Descriptions of the most intense and universal human emotions in flourishing language that made my heart flutter.
“It wasn't until I got older,” he continues, "once I thought you'd moved on and I‘d resigned myself to live a life missing my most important piece. You." He brushes a thumb along my jaw, and my mouth cracks open to suck in a breath. “That's when I realized that those poems really weren't sad at all. I'd been given a gift. The greatest gift I could have ever asked for. What we had…” he trails off, his eyes going glassy for just a moment before he blinks the emotion away. “I told myself that I was lucky to have ever had you at all. That there are people who never find their soulmate.”
Bobby twists us towards the graves, moving me in front of him and wrapping his arms around me as I lean back against his chest.“And we loved with a love that was more than love…”
Suddenly, I know exactly where we are.
The sepulchre by the sea.
“I and my Annabel Lee…” I breathe, my hand coming to rest over my thundering heart.
Bobby's eyes brighten as he watches the realization wash across my features.
“I feel like that poem is tattooed on my bones, I've read it so many times. I can see your face as you watched me read it. It haunts my dreams, sometimes.”
“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee.” My voice is just a whisper, the memory of the day I’d showed him that poem washing over my skin and causing goosebumps to bloom all over my body.
Bobby nods. “That's what we had. A love that made the angels envious. And even though we weren’t together, I’ve always felt like we were luckier than Poe.”
I lower my brows, not understanding.
Bobby plays with a piece of hair hanging by my shoulders. “They say Annabel Lee died of yellow fever. She was so young. Even if I’d lost you, you werealive. Healthy and happy. At least, I thought you were. To hear after all this time that you weren't…” he trails off, his jaw ticking.
I twist in his arms so that I’m facing him. “You're right,” I say. “We’re far luckier than Poe.”
Bobby looks down at me, his brows lowered as if now he’s the one not understanding. “Our story doesn't have a tragic ending. We get a second chance. I think Poe would have done anything for that.” Bobby lets out a deep exhale, squeezing me tighter.
“Our story. I like the sound of that,” he says. We stand in the quiet for a few moments, the air cooling as the sun fully dips below the horizon. “Do you know the rest of the story? What came after the poem?”
I shake my head. “What happened?”
“The universe didn't want them to be together. Even after she was gone, Poe couldn’t be with her. Her father didn't approve, and when she died, he dug several plots so Poe wouldn't know where she'd been laid to rest. He couldn't even visit her body.”
My heart sinks, grief heavy in my chest. “I think I’m changing my stance. This poem is very, very sad.”
“No.” Bobby shakes his head. “Having a love like that is beautiful, no matter how long you get to have it for. But there's one more difference between their story and ours.”
“What's that? If I die of yellow fever, you’ll make sure to find my grave?” I joke.
“I would. But that’s not exactly what I mean,” he says, his lips tipping downward. “I know what it's like to be without you. I made that mistake once. The difference is, these aren't just words that rhyme to me. I'll never let us be forced apart again. As long as my heart is beating in my chest, I will always,alwaysfind a way back to you.”
It takes me a moment to answer, swallowing down the lump in my throat and blinking back the tears threatening to spill over my lashes. “You won't have to find your way back to me,” I finally say. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“Promise me,” Bobby says, caressing my cheek with his thumb as he tilts my chin to meet his eyes. There's a vulnerability there that makes me pause, and it makes my heart squeeze painfully to see this strong, confidentman so tormented.
"I promise," It comes out as nothing more than a breath of air, my throat too choked up to make a sound. “As long as you promise me the same.”
“Until I take my final breath, I’m yours. Even after,” he says, leaning down to kiss my forehead before tucking my head beneath his chin.
Warmth spreads through my body as I relax into his embrace, and I do everything I can to commit this moment to memory. The sound of the crickets and the slight whistle of the tall grass as the breeze blows across the cemetery. The way Bobby's breath matches mine as we stand wrapped around each other, enjoying the comfortable silence. The strong, rhythmic beat of his heart tapping out a rhythm that makes me want to write down words to match it.
As long as this heart is beating, this man is mine.
A group of tourists round the corner and Bobby sighs, pulling me back toward the main road to call a cab to take us to where the bus is parking for the night, not wanting to be noticed.
