The popcorn ceiling
flakes off
onto the comforter.
I turn over
and pull his
heavy arms
around my neck.
He is dead to me,
but his grip
is alive and well.
Air passes though
purple lips.
Fingers are stiff
yet take the time
to graze my back.
Smile: crooked
before breaking
the skin.
You're dead to me.
Or are you?