Necrophilia, as in Sex in a Long Dead Relationship

 
With her head on my shoulder, I die. I become a corpse, cheery

plank

ice sculpture

around which she joyfully dances, spinning on the balls of her feet,

pointe shoe

prop

the purple fabric of her dress swirling around her in an absurd raincloud.

 

In private,

(together)

proudly, she plans to be a ballet dancer, professional basketball player, my girlfriend, an astronaut

(impossible.)

Alone, she believes she is all of them and more,

 

but settles with me for just gymnast, tumbling around my body

scuffed gymnasium floor

trampoline

rattling jungle gym

and I keep smiling, keep my arm around her wherever she goes.

 

You feel cold,

corpse

plank

ice sculpture

she comments and tucks a blanket around my hips. Stop being so textbook anatomy,

rigor mortis

heart disease

she urges. Stop being so constructed,

scuffed gymnasium floor

trampoline

rattling jungle gym

she begs.

 

She presses her lips to my lips

sour candy

lollipop

corpse

and her hand to my hand

prop

pointe shoe

and her hips into my hips

half-deflated balloon

still flies.