She flirted with death,
buried
her face in his black hoodie,
arms ‘round his waist as if they shared a motorcycle.
She breathed in his place, breathed in his scent,
and it was sickly sweet like
the rotted body
of an overripe strawberry.
But death’s ribcage is not for show;
his stopped heart needed only time to grow fond,
inexorably, of her fearless nearness.
Her tantalizing dance on his edges
rattled his bones to their marrow.
She would have grown old waiting for him