“I would have loved you,” he sighs sadly, hand slipping down her marred, chalky arm, cold and still as death. Her eyes are empty and black.
“I would have made you a happy woman,” he promises quietly, stumbling forward, hands mapping out her body.
“You would have been my Eve,” his voice catches; not from his stutter but tears he won’t let fall. It hurts too much to weep.
His cheek rubs hers mournfully, sutures catch, ”We would find paradise together.”