An Ode to Rot

My dearly beloved,

I have yearned for the feel of your skin, the way brittle leaves yearn for rain. 

I loved you first in the hush of a spring morning. Dawn’s wind kissed you gently, and I’d never known such deep cutting jealousy. Robins sang overhead, trill notes ringing out in proclamation of you, my love, of all that you were. Fire, breath, joy, and beauty. The world around you seemed to bloom with it, with your essence.  Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, seeming to quake with my longing. 

I held you deep within my embrace then. Soft. Consuming.

Spring rains fell from the heavens, softening the earth to make way for summer’s floral bounty. The azaleas paled in comparison to the blush that left your cheeks.

Summer surrendered to autumn’s orchestra of howling winds and swirling leaves. The blazing symphony of sunset foliage had lost its luster when I beheld the churning emerald ocean of your glassy eyes. 

Autumn laid down at the foot of winter’s icy throne. The fresh blanket of snow on the ground erupted in a dazzling show of glitter beneath the light of the moon, like millions of tiny diamonds. No amount of jewels could outshine the way the moonlight had caressed your silken tresses, the way it had bounced off of the cupid’s bow of your lips.

You brought no words when you came to me—only your presence, wondrous and tantalizing. I care not for words, but for the softness of the silence that rests so easily between us.  For the way your weight feels holy against me, the way your limbs dance ever so slowly into my embrace. You give me more of yourself with each passing day, a warmth that seeps into me like rays of  golden sun. 

There is no need for sustenance beyond what you provide me with your love. Should I ever again feel the pang of hunger, I will simply kiss your ribs. Should my throat be rubbed with the coarseness of thirst, I will drink you in instead.

My fingers trace over the fraying edges of you, the way yours once traced the delicate petals of a rose blossom. My love fills the cracks forming in your bones, your honey-sweet marrow floods me in answer. It’s getting hard to tell now, where your dust ends and mine begins. And that, my darling, is love.