You visit me every morning,

a cold habitual routine.

Your coat black the color of mourning

and the flowers in your hands red the color of blood.

You leave the bloom upon my doorstep with a single tear.

Who is it that you cry for?

For me or yourself?

What could have been?

You move the green strands of grass from around my new stone face.

The words inscribed them now and evermore.

Even now I want to hold you in my now rotten arms.

If this is our relationship,

then why do you come for me still?

You tease me with your life

and give me gifts of the living only for them to whither

in my grasp each and every time.

This routine gives us only grief,

so why do you come for me still?

I a rotting corpse and you a living girl.

There is no hope for a relationship between the dead and the living.

The only us is a memory that not even the brightest star

could make true once more.

The only pleasure I have yet to give is to the insect

that nibbles at my weathered flesh.

I am but poison to the mind of the living you.

An unageing image of what once was.

A corpse cannot return the love of the living.

I can only accept your gifts and hope that the earth

may one day claim your body as mine.

Claim you so that we may be together once more.