how you finally murdered him
makes little difference to me
what matters now is silence, in this room
but, the holes that you lovingly hacked in me
for the pleasure of your fingers
does it feel the same to be in me, as I in you?
the slowness with which I eat you
like in your dreams, beneath those willows
brings a fire ever closer to your heart.
yet you complain the warmth comes slowly, like
the opposite of bleeding –
and I thought speed was only distance, over time
and my hunger for your body
is not a matter of importance
when you have fresh dug graves to dance upon.