lunatikap
- Reads 455
- Votes 26
- Parts 11
Your breath still lingers in the hollow of my throat,
a ghost whispering, mine, as the world rots quiet.
The flowers you gave me drink from wounds instead of rain,
their petals black, soft as ash, heavy with memory.
I hold you closer - closer still -
until your warmth stains my hands crimson.
Even in ruin, you are divine;
even in death, I cannot let you go.
Love was the knife.
And I, the willing wound.
It's a short story, mind it.
Story is a fiction.