It began with a touch,
soft as silk unraveling,
a thread pulled loose from the tapestry
of innocence.
Your lips were an altar,
and I, the unholy pilgrim,
offering the sacrifice of breath,
the marrow of my will.
The hunger came softly,
a whisper dressed as longing,
teeth hidden behind velvet promises,
the slow erosion of self.
You tasted my name,
savored its trembling syllables,
and I, blind to the feast,
offered more a hand, a pulse,
a fragile heart still beating.
What remains of me now?
A hollow husk,
a ghost in the belly of love,
devoured by the sweetness
I once craved.
This banquet was always doomed.
I fed you all I was,
and still, your hunger grows,
boundless as the void
that now echoes in my chest.
The night swallows us whole,
and I cannot tell
if it is you I mourn
or the pieces of myself
you could not leave uneaten.