her body was
rigid and slate gray
old and hollow and full of
his notes, his ideas
his color on her lips,
and her blood meant nothing,
his life meant everything.
but he was forgotten, unforgiven for forgiving them,
forgiving her, her eyes full of algae.
when his blood left her soul
empty, bloody words of triumph, books of
culture and climax and stories of his life,
tales of the scars on his back,
her body shook and shivered in the cold,
while he hung from the gallows like a champion lost,
and the moss on her lips met decay,
and the ache in her heart came and stayed.

a/n: this is kind of old, fyi, and not the quality i'd like. but whatever, i haven't been posting much else lately. figured i'd shove something on here for the time being, assuming doing so won't propel me into a poetry-producing fit. you never really know with these things, but i digress.