I am a poet in love and you are immortal.
I savour how you smile at death,
And slip out of my coffin to please another in the darkness,
Like a child running from his mother’s lies.
I have imagined you next to me every night
That it does feel real.
You come as insomnia
As an old idiosyncrasy
As a drug
As the fire-maker;
Smouldering me till the moon feels weary;
Only to return on another night
To never kiss my scars
But to stone fresh blood spores in them,
To let the pain breathe inside.
You stand at the edge of my bed each night
To run your fingers on my body like a needle,
To ****** me with your carnality,
To drench your teeth in my blood like a digger in sand.
So, each night between the poles of nothing and everything
I unmake my bed
Stained with unfinished songs and pillows burnt
To let you in my heart shaped coffin
Because you are the fuel to this stick that runs between my fingers and writes for you.
So, come again tonight,
I’ll whisper you a death song.
You can laugh at death one more time,
And resurrect me with your rejection.