Ours is a killing love, of vulture circles in ruddy skies.
Ours is a venomous, tender snap of the neck, suckling blood.
Ours is not to question, just to pierce our bodies on swords.
Ours is not to know – it is to bind, to lash, to quiver, moan.
Ours is gored hands in a promise, a whisper of exile and ash.
Ours is your heart heady on my mouth, gristle like old wine.
Ours is not ours,
and I will never