When you finally take you last corporeal
form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.
Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull
and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;
where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven
dust motes move as your fingertip explores
my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen
touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores
gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized
with me once you have a shell of your own?
Or will I be just one more warm body?
Will you, who died for love and once despised
false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone
that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?