The Last Love Letter of the Death’s-Head King

The moths had eaten through his crown,

His throne was but a splintered chair,

Yet still she came when night fell down

To brush the dust from hollow hair.

"What use," he sighed, "a king of bone?

My heart’s a clock that long forgot

The way to chime." Her fingers, warm,

Paused at the crack where time had stopped.

She pressed her lips to ivory cheek

(His hollow face could never speak

Of how her breath, so honey-slow,

Made ash taste sweet). "Then let me show—

Your ribs shall be my harp," she said,

My lullabies will fill your head,

And when the world calls me away,

I’ll leave my pulse beneath your tray."

The dawn arrived (it always does).

She faded with the morning buzz

Of living things. But in the gloom,

He clutched her still-warm handkerchief—

Now kings and saints may call it madness,

Doctors write of "grief’s bad habits,"

But every night when stars grow bold,

Her ghost returns to kiss the cold.

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