Good Morning (Or, Sexy Zombie Love)

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.