Ex mortis ad mortem
The truth about true love stories is that they usually, if not inevitably, end in death.
But we're not a very usual couple: in our case, death was only the beginning.
She was all dressed in white, her skin pale as alabaster, her hair vibrant and unruly as naked flame, but I dared not speak to her, for she was frothing blood.
It was the Day of the Dead, and we were both covered in thick red gore, lurking amongst some half a thousand other zombies but, somehow, our eyes met only to be torn away by the mob.
We knew, however, where we could find each other and, by nightfall, we so did.
We studied each other for quite some time, avidly devouring every perk and detail we came across but platonic we remained, betrothed as she was.
A year and other loves passed by, until the Day of the Dead once again came and we finally could stare deeply into each other's eyes and hear each other's voices but her fingers were otherwise intertwined.
We exchanged only subtle pleasantries a