Necropsy

It’s a morbid hobby:
whenever paths are too straight
or the sunshine too bright to be trusted,
against a wretched soundtrack
of longing and heartbreak,
I exhume corpses.

Rattling and re-examining,
ruminating over the autopsy
-- death by silence and cowardice,
secondary to a diagnosis of
chronic bad timing and propriety --
Though I long ago picked off every morsel of meat
and dug out the bitter marrow,
still I hungrily suck these dry bones
craving, savouring the old sweetness
beneath their musty stench

Cradling these skeletons into my empty chest
I lie in the comfort of familiar pain
Knowing
at the very least,
I’ll never be abandoned
by this wraith of lost love
and a melancholy soul