Even your decay was divine to me—**sweet as spoiled wine. **My lips understood your polished collarbone better than any vow—tracing slow, scared, aching to be felt back.

Your ribs sang in splinters, and I hummed along with my teeth gnawing on your ghost. It didn’t hurt you, yet you bled. Laughing like a wound unstitched, wearing your dignity like perfume.

You smiled with bones.

Touched me in echoes—not with your hands, though.

I let you in where even I was not allowed.

Even your beauty was profane to me—**sweet as spoiled wine.** Wretched and ruinous.