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.