15 January 2012
You always smelled of coffee and orange peels, a home I pretended to remember for your sake. Our hands shook, your back trembling like crumbling marble when I kissed where the cracks split your skin. In our living room you sang a song about the Colossus but all I saw was your head washing out to sea.
Now I see it in the dark when I try to sleep and the scent of coffee wafts under the bedroom door like treacherous smoke. Your song carries me to the kitchen and I smile, wrap my arms around your waist. You smell of coffee, of orange peels, of rotting flesh and blood freshly spilled. Good morning. I speak for you. Good morning.
I put you back together but your spine still digs into my chest, trembling, making me shudder and my bones creak. Our hands shake, bones bent around ceramic handles and I kiss the stitches where your neck meets your body. Behind my eyes there is an ocean and there you smile and submerge.
Good Morning (Or, Sexy Zombie Love) • Opuss № I