In the spider’s webbed cathedral of ruin,
walls bruise against the sickly dusk light.
Her hand hovered, tender as waxed fruit,
over his chest, a field of razored edges.
The echo of sirens stitched the silence,
a hem fraying against the loud weight
of a room carved hollow by absence;
still, their mouths stretched into smiles.
Irony, a viper coiled into soft shapes,
bit without venom, left its faint mark—
a comedy etched into the tender marrow,
grief\'s lover always drunk, always laughing.
The clock spun back to when breath filled,
lungs ballooned with the arrogance of hope.
Now smoke curled, a finger tracing circles,
even the dying could draw their laughter.