My father used to tell me stories to help me sleep, about the mandrakes and the golems and the nymphs. The stories always ended the same way—don't mess with things you don't know about. He warned me not to pull anything from the dirt. I should have listened, but my relationships were like miscarriages back then. Bloody and over before I could have them. I needed change. I needed you.

I went out after midnight into the garden. The cicadas whined for connection, confused by the cold summer night. I found the shovel waiting for me, placid by the shed.
The ground breathed open for me, rich and wanting. The first plunge the easiest. I was worried I would cut through something vital part, so I abandoned the shovel.
The dirt was cold on my fingers. I carved out your head and felt your shoulders underneath. Strong like stone. I pulled you out.
In a moment you were unearthed, naked and new and mine with the moon for your halo.
You were fragile then. I took you into my home. Put you in the bathtub, because that felt right. Do you remember that?
Father's clothes were a bit too big, but I made them work, fastening the buttons over your exposed chest. The dirt hardened into dark skin, and then I could touch you without worrying you would dissolve.
I leaned over to kiss your cracked earth lips. You opened your eyes, your gaze fixed somewhere in my hair. I forgot you couldn't move them.
The first mistake I made was taking the convertible. The Chevrolet belonged to my father, and that made it worse. But I was stupid and didn't consider how the wind might steal pieces of you from me. I pulled over and heaved the cover from the back. You didn't help me. But that was okay, I would take care of you.
I held your hand on the highway and it felt warm, but it could have been the heater. Something pulsed under your skin and I told myself it was a vein, pushing away thoughts of slithering insects.
I thought the motel attendant was a nymph himself, but I knew what to keep to myself. Nights of milk and honey were all I knew then. I rooted my nails into your back, breaking through the crust. You'd never run from me. Never say angry things. Never ask me where you came from.
And when my money ran out we left. I wanted more. I wanted you. We drove until the sun passed overhead twice, scorching the endless road. You hadn't said anything for a long time. I needed to hear it, that fractured voice I had conceived.
"Tell me you love me."
I waited, my fingers tight on the wheel. The AC blasted.
"You love me."
"No." I closed my eyes, foot over the brake. "I love you."
You said nothing. I looked you over. There were crumbles of soil on the leather seats. My father's clothes were stained.
I said something I didn't like but you didn't seem to hear it. My hands burned from banging the steering wheel. We had come so far, miles and miles and days, and yet nowhere at all.

I buried you that night, jealous of the way you sighed back into the earth.