You'd moan and you'd struggle when I
trailed my fingers in creases along your
threadbare pale neck and worked my
way down your vertebrae, counted
them like my freckles on the
face you liked to kiss. I would
pant in between, leaving you in
breathless skins, like how I'd like
to take the damned skin off and
be with you in a way so final
and permanent so that even
reapers leave.

I liked the way you arched your
back, screaming my name like it's the only
thing you know and I'd pray out your
name, like you're something of a
saint, but you're more than that,
you're the angel with
charred wings.