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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?