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.