They say that death isn't a disease,
that you can't spread it
like a virus
from mouth to mouth
or in a blown kiss

but each time I touch your skin
I hear my heart in my head
blood pulsing, lightly at first
But fiercer the longer my fingers
lick the shell of you
like flames

I look into your eyes, sometimes
despite myself
and see the burst blood vessels
spread out like a drop of paint
in a puddle

I know that our hearts
are about to give up on us
and that it will be
no lightning bolt
of passion
of bursting love
of feeling too much

they will just die
like a story dies
when there is no-one left
to listen to it

I can't help but think
of the life we
could have had
if we'd waited

instead of clinging madly
onto each other
desperate to shake off
the fever of the last ones
we'd touched