Necromancy

She replaces her wrists
with the sharp thorns
of roses and slurred
don't-touch-me's

-

as she speaks
in an old tongued
language that whispers

de

cipher

me.

-

She collects stars
on her knuckles,
& her dust eyes
are sad moon nebula's
starved for love.

-

But, the kisses
she sinks into the curve
of her lover's ribcage
by night, warm that
supernova heart.