Velvet Sepulcher

Cobwebs of shadow veil our moonlit bed,
Where your warm breath unthreads the sleep of dead.
Your marble hands ascend my yielding spine,
A quiet sacrament of bread and wine.

The candles stoop beneath their crowns of flame,
As molten wax forgets the saints by name.
I drink the velvet midnight from your mouth,
Where every kiss turns north and every pulse turns south.

Come closer.

The room has learned the weight our bodies keep.
Even the walls lean inward just to hear us breathe.
Your heartbeat enters mine so patiently
That neither knows which silence it has borrowed.

Your lips—
cool orchard after the final frost—
Leave pale blossoms opening beneath my skin,
White as ribs remembering they were lilies.

Do not speak.

Your voice would only wake the dust.

Let the darkness finish blessing us instead.
Let it gather in the hollow of your throat
Before it flowers inside my own.

Let our names loosen
Like old ribbons from forgotten graves,
Until only your hand remains,
Closing around mine
With the slow certainty
Of ivy choosing stone.

And if morning comes,

May it find only candles
Burning before an empty bed,
Their flames inclining toward each other
As though they still recall
Two lovers
Who kissed so deeply

Even absence
Learned to breathe.