She wandered an abandoned Moorish castle in search of breathtaking vistas of mountains and green trees. Her broad shoulders held the weight of the world. Her mind riveted by an invisible game of chess. She shook, like the naked leaves.
She heard his voice echo against the stone slabs of the labyrinth. She asked where he came from. He said he belonged to the night. He disappeared in the mist. The evening grew cold, but held stern promise.
The foggy sky hid the moon. The sun stood still, self-conscious. Her breath was heavy. Her feet were light. She descended the path. Her steps, like dew, lasted the watches of the night. She was cool, calm, and collected. She spread her hope of finding him, her love, as if applying scented anointing oil on her skin. In the morning, sweat glistened on her body. She shone brighter than the sun. She was a garden with rivers flowing.
The two became one through death. Him, architecture. Her, nature. She gave up her life to be united with him. Her windswept hair told the story of her origin. Her piercing eyes closed and her lips parted. Her soul opened up. In the arms of the grave, flowers budded. Rose petals scattered in the breeze. The names of these lovers made music. Their story, a glittering vase, a melody made perfect in a reprise. This was the type of love that brought men and women to their knees. A sword unfurled, an unexpressed need.
This reads more like prose poetry than straight fiction. Like a ribbon, falling, it unfurls rhythmically from start to finish. Well done, Yeru!