Sinners never sleep, so why are you snoring in my bed,
nibbling the bullet of a jaded Valentine instead of repenting?
I kept track of your sins but recorded none of mine.
Your guilty pleasure manifests in jealousy.
I’ve taken back Sunday in a funeral home before I died alone.
I’m with you even though you can’t see how you killed me
with the words I’d never wanted to hear.
I don’t love you anymore.
But now that you can’t interlace your fingers with mine
and tangle your cold body with mine,
you scream you miss me
through a shriek in your voice and blurry eyes
that makes my spirit blush.
You killed the best part of us,
but you’ll never stray too far
from the grave in which you buried me
inside your head.
(© 2022 AC)