hey, my bedridden darling
there is nothing inside you

this love
it terrifies.
it consoles.
it cleaves.
all in equal, contradicting bites.
there is nothing inside you
you said that once.
or maybe i did.

i’m sorry i can only offer you
this husk
it almost clicks.
it almost leaks.
it almost sings.
but it’s mostly a kind of song
you don’t dance to.
realism moans in the pipes.
debauchery stains.
this is our symphony now,
a tender little collapse
we perform each night
for an audience of mildew
and cracked porcelain saints.

these limbs
still here.
still trying.
still failing.
beautiful little arabesques of rot.
we were swans, weren’t we?
or at least some birds with bones and feathers

were we light enough to float before we molted into
this twist
after regret.
after longing.
after haunt.
pick one, they’re all true.
sanity flaps its wet velvet sleeves
a flamboyant ghost
doing cosplay in our shared delusion.
we clap. we bow.
the performance never ends.
your hands, my love
a whole circus of sensations.
like fireworks dropped in molasses.
bones click against bones

i think it says don’t leave me.
i think it says we already did.

you look holy.
you say,
“soaps have corpses too”
and i believe you

-as you wash my scalp