Touch of the Grave
Your touch is winter, tomb-cold and hungry–
It isn’t romance, it’s the slow seduction of rot, the beautiful curse I begged for in the dark.
Every embrace is a contract signed with longing and fear,
Your hands don’t comfort, they claim–icy, absolute, the aftertaste of every old sin.
Love with you is not hope but surrender,
I kneel at the altar of your hunger and offer up everything:
Memory, reason, shame–
In your eyes, I see the promise of an ending that is also a beginning,
A grave that feels more honest than any fairytale kiss.
You haunt me with midnight whispers–stories of what we’ll become,
Flesh and shadow, predator and prey, two hearts entwined in the echo of what we’ve done.
Your mouth is poison and heaven,
You bruise me with devotion, leave marks in the hollow of my throat,
A permanent reminder that I was once loved by a darkness that craved my soul.
Death and desire wrestle in the sheets–
I surrender, because I want to be ruined,
I want your cold to enter me,
To chase the heat from my bones,
To know that I’ll never be alone
As long as you haunt me.
We make love in the graveyard of old dreams–
Marble angels watching, grass slick with dew and regret,
You fuck me like you’re claiming my ghost,
Like you’re making me immortal in your own image,
A secret to keep when the world is gone,
A scar that glows in the moonless dawn.
Your touch leaves me lost, ruined in the best way,
Each orgasm a death, each sigh a resurrection–
I don’t want a future; I want you to keep me in this moment,
Nails in my back, teeth on my throat,
Forever bound in the silence of what we are–
A love that doesn’t need witnesses,
A promise no one else will ever understand.