The Laughter of Ashes

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.