O how the moon, a leprous wafer, glues itself to your throat, where my teeth have gnawed the violets of your veins to blackened dew. Your breath? A silvered poison I have clawed from lungs like shattered viols. Come, undo the corset of your ribs, let shadows thaw between us, thick as opium.
The bed is heaped with lilies, dead…so dead…The clockwork heart you gave me ticks its slow corrosion through my hollow chest. Your fingers, slick with frost, trace along my spine, each vertebra confessed in tongues. The candle wicks drip wax like spermaceti. Shall we rest beneath this quilt of spiders? Yes.
The dark tastes sweeter when undressed…And when the dawn, that pallid whore, comes sneaking through the keyhole, you’ll be gone, in decay of the carrion’s touch as I pen. But fear not! For your portrait, absolute in its rot, shall hang it belongs: above my pillow, grinning, destitute, with lips still wet from where the night withdrew its necrophilic song.
