Her rotting body is a disguise; some porcelain mask
See how incredibly white she is!
And warm, still so warm
He dreams the scarlet flowing there

Oh, you cannot be dead

He rests his shaking fingers upon her silent lips
Ah; her sad, longing words haunt him
He whispers at her frail neck, his breath buried there
The thin gown she wears, her glimmering burial shroud
A pool of milk under his hands
The kissed limbs of a lovely and limp corpse
He cannot dream anymore
Pressing his burning lips to hers
And still her pale eyes remain shut

A man, a shell empty of sanity
Only knowing devotion
He lays down beside her in heaviness
Wrapping his weary arms about her body—
A bed of skin and bones—
And he waits for his bride to wake