there’s something so comforting about feeling your own bones,

will we be together in death?

as we were never in life?

as they return your rose-adorned corpse to the earth,

will my skeletal fingers, extend towards yours?

when they speak of your life,

will they speak of mine?

speak of how i loved you? or of how i let you down?

the roses may grow, may spread, may carve out a path between our beds, a path of pure red,

or they may wilt, may die,

they may turn limp as my hand did in yours that night,

and as your heart did in mine soon after,

they may return to the earth just as we did, linked only by memories and accompanied only by dry soil between us,

what i’d give to take your hand in mine once more,

to reach between your ribs and cradle your heart like i never could,

and to have you cradle mine,

like you always would,

what i’d give to press my forehead to yours,

and feel my love coursing through your veins the way it still courses through mine,

what i’d give to tuck one last rose behind your ear, and to whisper as i did,

“to the world”

i gave myself,

my body, my corpse, my soul,

left to rot,

so yours could blossom,

my love,

remember me in the new life you bestow?