He was gentle when he reached out,
Tracing the forgotten sunspots
That once formed parenthesis
Upon her hollow, sunken cheeks
Oh, how he hungers for
The taste of her skin,
His bloodless, pale lips closing
Over her own
She combs her fingertips
Through the weeds that have
Sprouted from his cracked skull,
Replacing the hair that once sat
On his head
The hollow sockets of her eyes plead
"Hurry and hold me, my love
Before the rigor mortis sets in"
The sound of bone
Scraping against bone
Is nearly deafening,
But anything is better than silence
The gap beneath their sternums
Desperate to revive a long-stilled heartbeat
One headstone, two names, and
Bodies sinking back into the earth
YOU ARE READING
Pleasure or Pain? (Poetry)
PoetryI call this my book of chaos; my sanctuary. When the turmoil inside of me resurfaces, when I've surpassed my tipping point, putting my jumbled thoughts and conflictions into words gives back the control I initially lost.
