We were two thieves crucified, we bled roses
in the beds we stole, midnights passing nails
between palms and teeth. The flesh is a memory.
The flesh is a prayer.

Wrapped in the shroud of last rights we occupied
the spaces between other’s desire. It was sin.
It was pure. It was a funeral bier we laid
willingly upon.  Fingers slipping into fire.
The blood born mortality, a cup brought finally
to our lips. A world in flames consuming
the rest of us.

.