i make love with Death every night.

during the day, we go our separate
ways, but she's always on my mind.
after work, we meet up.
same routine. dinner, occasionally.
but always drinks.

she downs a bottle
of Cabernet
with no help
from me.
the red compliments
her dress and flushes
her cheeks with pink.
i just take coffee. black.

afterwards, she needs
a lift home. i'm her dd.
the city lights blur
indigo and violet,
blossoming like flowers
in the pavement
of the night sky.

we arrive. she invites
me to come inside,
looks me in the eye,
says, "i love you."

i believe her,
even though i know
it's a lie.

the minutes hang thick.
while she sobers up,
we roll dice
and tell stories.

then, breathless and slick,
it begins in the kitchen.
gasps come in spasms, pulsing
in tandem with our obsessive—
compulsive—desire.
we continue beneath the duvet.
i sample the flesh between her legs.
she tastes like pomegranate
and bruised starfruit. her sweat
is second-hand smoke. my brain buzzes
from Marlboro Lite cigarettes.

afterwards, we lay over the sheets
as the ceiling fan rotates eternally
overhead, humming a tune we both hear
in our dreams but cannot comprehend.  
her head rests on my chest,
she loses herself in the gaps
between each heartbeat.

wordless, we drift.

when i wake, she's always gone.
the space in bed beside me
has grown cool. jealously,
i wish Death had taken me with her.