Our love, my dear, is a corpse.
The stench assaults me every morning when I wake.
The putrid smell haunts my nose as we lie dormant.
My muse, we share a cadaver.
Beauty drained by a tirade of mistakes.
Love lost, lacking life. Hewn by a cold scythe.
Shall we co-author the obituary?
Or is it for me to pronounce the death?
Even from the grave it tortures us both.
Maggots in the bed,
My erection rigour mortis,
Necrophilism each time we kiss.
There’s something I miss,
Fuck me harder. Maybe I could love you again.