The black muck that drips from inside her rib cage
Fills his cup of tar
Her licorice black ringlets fall down over her skeleton
He tunnels a single finger up through a ringlet.
It feels soft and delicate on his flesh decaying finger
The light in their room is not one of the sun or electricity
But the luminous glow of the moon
Intruding on their darkness.
Corpses or freaks of the undead.
They live in deceased placid harmony
Away from accusing eyes..
In a world that belongs to them
A world in which they fit
He kisses her, a deathly cold, bloody kiss
On the soft deteriorating skin on her cheek,
The only bit she has left.