Our Caves

We live in caves, you and I, dark and cramped and damp. They are where we live, but we never call them home. Drilled into the face of the cliff and opening unto the vacant oceanic air, we cannot see each other, we cannot visit. Sometimes we can hear one another, but more often our voices, seldom uttering anything coherent, only echo in manifold stretti in our sensitive but dulled ears.
I know you are there; you know I am here. We should be friends.
We are friends.
We share too much for us not to have common interests. We are both walled in by the open expanse of atmosphere that forms our front yard. We both feel lonely and in need of a kind word.
We are prevented, though, and not because we lack the will to share.
Damnation! We are dying to talk, longing for a pat on the back.
We know we could talk if we but dared.
But how can we dare? We might die. We might be rejected. We might even be ejected.
But I have a drill, and I have, sometimes, the will.
Perhaps we might tunnel through the fear into love?

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