She languishes in the gallery of his unspoken alphabet.
Tasting the exodus of his destitution on his skin, potpourri,
She punctures her head into the shapes of his skeleton.
His disease-ridden fingers stumbled across her temples.
The worshipping chin of his perfumed and despotic face
Rams its language into the papyrus of her navel.
Sing to me, he croaks, and she concentrates on the holes
In the walls, the abused tapestry, the loud drapes, the saliva
Of his mouth everywhere on her body, the glasses, the knives.
He minimises and collects, her abandonment mocked and mimicked,
Barged into oblivion and savagery. He fans his coquetries across her
Throat and tightens his compliments to soothe her proximity to death.
He listens to the melodies of her honey-tongued desire
To be free of him, amputate the memory of them from
Her pores, her sex, her pits and cliffs and abysses.
He howls alongside her edges, blowing his diseased breath onto
Her spine and prays to the underworld that she’ll always be his.