Skeleton Love
Beneath the hum of an old ceiling fan that coughs the dust of every lie,
A bed sags with the weight of bodies who learned early that flesh and truth both die,
Each wrinkle an archive, every scar a line–love’s contract redrafted in flesh, in time,
And in the closet, skeletons clack, not with shame, but the pleasure of crimes too old for the sublime.
When midnight’s breath stinks of sweat, lube, whiskey, and half-remembered sin,
Hands tangle in sheets tattooed by decades, hips grind, ignoring the warnings of skin,
Cocks rising like old soldiers, not for glory, but defiance, refusing surrender to bone,
Moans echo in a room where past lovers linger, laughter sharper now, more alone.
Ghosts of past fucks watch from corners, a jury of exes and never-weres, smirking, cold,
History stains every thrust, every gasp, every joke about who’s gotten too old,
Nobody here is innocent, nobody cares–wrinkles and regret are the price of survival,
But lust, real as arthritis and louder than grief, becomes the twisted proof of revival.
Ribcages rattle with laughter, knees crack like shotguns fired in protest at dawn,
Nipples sag, tattoos bleed, but the hunger is honest, all grace has long since gone,
No filtered lies, no youth-worship, only the carnal mathematics of desire plus decay,
And still, bodies insist, teeth on necks, hands on tits, that the grave can fucking wait one more day.
Love in this room is a haunted house, full of stains, creaks, shame and hard-won pride,
Old arguments echo in the rhythm, lost years, missed chances, and names we denied,
Nobody strips for beauty–only for heat, only to outlive the cold, only to show
That lust can coexist with bad knees and sagging ass, that coming is victory over slow, ugly woe.
Secrets pile up with laundry: affairs, abortions, failed dreams, broken oaths, the list too long,
No one pretends anymore; the only rules played are filthy, and the only law is strong,
Fingers slide along varicose veins, mouths savor the salt of survival, breathless and real,
Fucking here isn’t romance, it’s refusal to vanish, a hymn sung in creaks, in sweat, in steel.
Down the hallway, photographs fade–children, funerals, old dogs, holidays blurred by gin,
But in this moment, age is the narcotic, honesty the kink, and the climax a dirty win,
Afterward, bones creak, silence thickens, and laughter erupts at a cramp or a fart,
Skeletons rattle approval, their grins carved from memory, their hands never far from the heart.
Let the world keep its young, its polished, its pretty, its boring, its terrified of rot,
Here, love is necromancy: raising desire from the grave with each aching, ecstatic knot,
Tomorrow, maybe pain will win, maybe pills won’t work, maybe death will collect what it’s due,
But tonight, beneath the ceiling fan’s dying confession, survival is measured by what these bodies still do.