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You came to my bedside one night,
much like any other.
But the smell of mold reminded me
that we'd buried you that morning.
Now with every sunset's dying gasp
I feel your gaze drawing close.
With every pale sunrise
I am nearer to your tomb.
As you sit upon the clammy sheets -
the whisper of your passing,
a chill upon my skin -
my heaving coughs call up blood,
sticky as grave rot on my fingers.
My love, why do you kiss my cheek?
I am not so eager to share your embrace.
 Dulcia Dusken · Sat Nov 17, 2007 @ 09:48pm · 0 Comments |
