THANATOMANIA
this is the third thursday in a row that you haven't wanted to make love,
because you guide my hand to rough edges and stare at the stars through
the ceiling and tell me that you will die. you, born of bronze and carbon,
blue magic woman, you'll outlive us all; i am only flesh and blood and
rotten blood at that, and if it weren't for my rotten blood we wouldn't have
met. i write it on my face that i dream to die. i told you once i would throw
away the cigarettes and burn the photos of wounds because of how
i loved you. i stayed ill just to keep seeing you, of course—but remember
the next night you recall that your body isn't part of you as a solid psyche,
i love you even when my own fate is sealed, love you madly enough to
live forever.