Confessions in the 34th Minute

I told the mirror not to answer but it wept a name I had never spoken yours. The one with no god, no grave, only silence for bones. We made chapels of each other's mouths, your breath the liturgy, mine the dagger. We knelt. We undressed. We bled. Each kiss a benediction spilled on the floor of the forsaken. You called me a cathedral; I called you a ruin with holy teeth. We carved poems on the inside of our skin so when we died, they'd read the rot and say: "This was once love." But we were never alive enough for it to end that gently. Only ghosts would make love the way we did with war with fever with famine with cum.