If your last breath was
taken
in front of my
weeping eyes,
my lips would not
know a
sorrow worse
than kissing you
for
the last time.
Your wounds visible,
and mine bleed on the
inside as yours do onto
the now crimson concrete.
My lips and fingertips are
stained scarlet by your demise,
I still crave you like I used to.
I won’t let a drop of you go
to waste my darling.
My tongue tastes whats
left of you and I know now
that love is the most sick
form of beauty that I’ve seen.