Blue eyes,
crystal water,
black, brown, maybe blonde
hair cascading
through repetitious serenade.
Red lips,
pink skin,
perfectly parted --
awaiting the kiss of death.
Holding hands,
holding their guns
precisely pointed
at one another's fragile skull.
Both pale,
shaking,
dying,
blue eyes turned to cold stone
with one glance
of her porcelain face,
a plastic aesthetic.
Who are you?
She sharpens her nails,
hammers them into already
deliciously decaying flesh;
lover's flesh.
They're the walking dead,
decomposing, in their still composure
barely rippling at the surface
of a non-existent love.
