to lie down next to you in all of the perpetuity,
moss will grow all over our skin —
as if mushrooms, feeding on
dying, young aspens
and maybe the forest will claim us for its own.

to lie down and watch light slowly go mad
at the sight of the fog that festers,
at the feel of the skin that rots:
a macabre sight to the outside world, yet —
a lively feast to a ****** of crows.

soon, sweet one, candles will die
and i'll be lying next to you —



the feel of daylights, forgotten.