Voiceless echoes are coming for us.
They’re crunching leaves and bones
against their molars and ripping jugulars
with their canines,
stabbing at the only flesh not burrowed
under dreams and blankets.
I can smell the sulfur. I can smell the heat.
Every waning fairytale on its last leg
hobbles back into the pages
and yet you stand. You. The unlit cigarette
hanging off of my lips, the funeral of smoke
strangling my uvula.
You hug me, the hole inches onward
toward six feet. A foot per year.
You loved me once.
You buried me forever.