Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”
I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.” You said
you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,
I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;
my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips
and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured
on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.