Love In Death's Head

She held the skull of her husband, up, slanted,
toward the light. Revealing the crack, long and precise,
that drew past the middle, between his eyes,
down his nose. To the lips that once spoke of truth.
Sunken eyes revealed pain, from starring, too long,
into the light. She saw past the darkness, into,
mangled cobwebs that accumulated
when she rolled the skull, down the hall.
Waiting to see how long, it would take, to shatter.
Smiling at the sight of crawling splinters,
severing the bone like a threaded needle, ripping,
stitching through.
Dissolving. Like her want for him,
now dispersed. Love, lingering,
like the dust particles hidden in the nostrils
and underneath the wedding gown she wore as skin.
Wrinkled and gray from decades of wear.
And tear. Obsessed with tautness,
like the night she fell into love with a man
she killed by hugging too tightly. Despairingly.
His skull, reminding her, of the dangers,
associated with the heart’s senseless furnace.

Here is yet, another addition to my poetry book. I wrote this not too long after a personal occurrence that shattered my being exactly 1 year ago today. The influence of the title sparked from my ever favorite Salvador Dali and the thought behind the text was just something I put together lying in bed crying. I wrote this with my heart barely beating in my chest.