i am in love with the dead

he tells me i am beautiful,

tracing scars with curious fingertips.

he teases my head back

and i part my lips and kiss him

with a dagger tongue.

i am in love with the dead,

cannot relinquish the memory.

agincourt stings, and dresden cries.

somewhere, tucked in my broken ribcage,

a dull ache sings. i lust for the past.

but i have become good

at lying. seated in a theater of

laughless comedy and tragedy

sans tears, i perch and stretch

and yawn bohemian idolatries.

still, i weep for guernica,

cradle the thought to my bosom

as he urges me closer.

i cannot relinquish the memory,

i am in love with the dead.