hey, my bedridden darling
there is nothing inside you

this love
terrifies.
consoles.
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 of a body
it almost clicks.
it almost leaks.
it almost sings.
but it’s mostly a kind of song you don’t dance to.
like realism moaning in the pipes and debauchery staining the curtains.
but this is our symphony now,

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
regret.
longing.
fear.
pick one, they’re all true.
a flamboyant ghost of our sanity and shared delusions.
we clap. we bow.
the performance never ends.

your hands, my love are a whole circus of sensations.
like fireworks dropped in molasses.
bones click against bones
click
click
click
i think it says don’t leave me.
i think it says we already did.

you look holy

you say,
“soaps have corpses too, my love”
and i believe you
as you wash my scalp