I’m dead. That part
of me was buried by the final words
shoveling on my chest.
I’m dead. With the last drenched
sight
of your pale form swaying in my mind. I’m dead.
Cross-armed
in my grave steadily consuming the grave-diggers mounting
dirt.
Shivering sheets like ice scathing
away my trampled heart, starting
to mumble your name, drained
of life’s vorpal grip, slipped
into that murky abyss, last kiss
to the dark as I tumble into the ground.
Don’t ever wonder if the dead ever love,
since that idea is the only thing that will never die.
