The Rotting Lovers

The Rotting Lovers

Their loins

Centuries old,

Clothed

By afterbirth,

The rotting lovers

Embrace,

Hands upon thighs

They cannot kiss,

They have no lips,

The stench

Of stale perfume

Surrounds their surrender.

Their blank eyes

Touch,

The furniture

Dying

In the shadows,

The putrid curtains,

The black window panes,

And the weight

Of the ceiling.

They are like corpses

In the ocean,

In the stalemate

Of the afternoon,

Hunched into a pillow,

Into dusk,

Into the corner

Of a galaxy,

In the antiroom.