I feel your fingertips run over my back
skin inlaid with gold and rivulet rubies
i am afraid of my mortal body
growing into the coffin it was meant to be
but you dig into the pale canvas skin anyway
tattoo the words you love to say
sink nails into fragile flesh
(who will remember this ink from six feet under)
shovel the ashes into my collapsed torso
chest cavity fertile enough for grave hairs to grow
your letters and sighs rot in swirling stains
down these dying earthly drains