You kneel at the altar of the body of the Object of Your Affection, and begin to pray.

Glory! She is as fair as the day you first saw her, all those years ago. Skin of delicate, papery gray, hair the dull, wilting rose of rotting melon- it cascades around her round shoulders and gentle face. Lifeless eyes gaze up to still nothing, blind after years of frozen rot. She lays supine and sublime on her stone bed, hands clasped gently over her stomach. The Object of Your Affection rests not in death but in deep, unknowable slumbers, the rest reserved for divinity alone. Asleep she remains in her crystal coffin, anointed in the lamp-oil and dressed in her baptismal gown. It is with reverent lust you look upon her, glorious and decaying. What is more perfect than her, your only love? Long ago, you dedicated yourself to her, without knowing that truth about her. Now, you have known her and you love her more. She is nothing but beauty, the beauty that only comes from divine rot.

Glory! The stone floor is cold and hard beneath your knees, the frigid air too still thin to breathe. Still as a tomb, quiet as death. Even you produce little sound- it is not the rattle of prayer beads or murmur of mantras that signifies your worship. It would be heresy to cause sound in this house of death, and so you will cause none. You stepped into the tomb without sound, you kneeled without sound, and you pray without sound. You hold your body as still as that of the Object of Your Affection. Your knees placed perfectly aside each other, your gaze lowered, your fingers interlaced- one between each knuckle, pressing so firmly they begin to whiten, though perhaps it is the cold. Your lips, perfectly pressed into a thin line, your tongue bit to reduce the temptation to speak. Even your breath, you remain still. You know you need not speak here, even if you’d had desire and reason to. The Object of Your Affection would hear your words regardless. It is the power and strength of her will that you put your trust into.

Glory! You pray the same prayers you always have- prayers of reverence, repetitive chants only spoken in the depths of your mind- what sin it would be, to voice in the presence of the Object of Your Affection? Above, in the chapel, such devotions are said aloud, in communal orison, shared divinity among clergy and laypeople. The chaplain will speak of the cavern, the grotto, the tomb and the body. He will sermonize meaning out of simplicity, ascribe tales of strife and strength out of simplicity and decay. He will take a being of love and turn it into a being of war. He will describe the body blindly, pretending he has seen it. He does not know her like you do. You, praised, beloved tombkeeper, have seen her like none other. In twenty-five years, yours have been the only feet to descend into the cavern. Yours have been the only legs to wade through the waters of the grotto. Yours have been the only hands to roll away the tomb-stone. Yours have been the only eyes to gaze upon the body of the Object of Your Affection. Though the chaplain will preach till his words become heresies, you will always know the truth. You will remain this tomb’s sacred guard, the sole caretaker of its inhabitant.

Glory! Though you know you are not meant to, you look upon her. You are not permitted to gawk over the body like a common parishioner, duty binds you only to kneel before her, eyes reverently closed. It is the sole duty of the tombkeeper to keep the tomb and pay all dues to the Object of Your Affections. It is sin enough to enter the tomb still breathing, yet the taking upon of this sin is the required duty of the tombkeeper. Somebody must pay direct reverence to the body. Somebody must join her in the tomb. For as long as you can remember, that someone has been you. It is with great shame and reverence you have taken upon your shoulders this sinful burden, and for that you have lived your life in solitude. If some other breathing soul were to discover your transgression, your body would swing from the gallows come morning. But no one will know. You have descended from surface to cavern, from cavern to grotto, from grotto to tomb and through the tomb until you’ve reached the altar of the body of the Object of Your Affection. Not one other waking soul joined you. Not one other waking soul knew that you’d committed the greatest heresy you’d known possible.

Glory! She is beauty incarnate. If there had ever been a figure more delicate, a more fitting picture of grace, you would not know. All you have known is masked faces and cloaked bodies, yet she is bare. All you have known is secrecy and deafening silence, yet she defies it all. She is everything, she is nothing, and she is your own secret. You are the only person to look upon her in twenty-five years, and the only person to love her in an eternity’s breath. You gaze upon her without shock, nor surprise- this transgression of beholding is not your first- but pure, palpable devotion. She, who you have served for your entire being, with your entire being. She, who you dedicated yourself to long before you knew how to understand dedication. She, who’s body rests so perfectly, so beautifully. If you were unbound by duty, would you join her? Would you commit to the love that is greater than the love of life? You think of this often, yet what love could you offer her if you did not breathe? Instead, you perform your sacred duty and your far-more-sacred sin. You behold her fully, the Object of Your Affection.

Glory! When your prayers and affections are finished, you reverently take your leave. It is unhealthy to remain in the tomb for any long period of time. The air is dense, the waters thick with poisonous cave-salts. A final benediction, a final breath, a final bow. You take one last look at the Object of Your Affection, watch her lying there graciously, and ascend out of the tomb. Come nightfall, you will return here again to perform the same duties, the same sins. You leave the solitary tomb as solitary as it’d been before your arrival. You wade through silent waters and still bite your tongue in fear of speaking. You return from solitude, to a different solitude. You leave a tomb empty.

Empty, but for me.