Will you love me still when my flesh has fallen to rot? Will you love me when decay has taken my form, and fed my flesh to a grave full of worms? Or should I slow the gangrenous bubbling of my skin? Will you love the ivory perfection of my bones, sweet one, so like the grasping branches of a dead tree...? Will you still lie by my side, our flesh rotting together, the roots of a tree twining through our ribcages? Will you still love me, love me dead?