No title, but I dig it.

The coppery burn of
you
on his tongue and
embedded in his nostrils
wakes him even
from morphine-sleep.

Aftertaste, afterimage, lingering
beneath living skin. You can die
in flesh, but you had
to die
in his arms and so
you will live viscerally,
vicariously, 'til you have twice
decayed.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, 7/12/2009)