In marble, like moon; encased and cold,
I linger where you sleep. Long shed of decadent
purulence, your pale caress holds me still,
and I dream of your bones atop my
bones; our veins dying of thirst; the
worms making love to our oblivious corpses.
In amour, like rose; blackened in rust,
I shiver where we kiss.
Our lust becomes the dirt; our soiled souls moan.
We’ve become immortal inside the wood-rot.