Corpse Bride by Neith Hale...fuckin necrophiliacs

[teacin4]

Corpse Bride
by Neith Hale

She was an ivory;
a greek statue
molded into perfection.
So still,
unresponsive,
inanimate.

It infuriated him.

He traced lines
covered with silk,
the curve of her nose -
smooth and lightly crooked -
her lips, the color
of twilight,
then finally her neck.
He brought down his tongue
to taste, devour
the damp wetness on her skin.

He rolled her over,
and still she didn't stir.
Grey-blue eyes stared
unblinking
on the ground he called her bed
and he drowned himself
by touching her back,
every curve, every bone;
slowly at first,
as if treasuring a meal,
then impatiently ravishing
like a famished vanguard.

He inhaled and intoxicated himself
with her scent.
She smelled like spring -
fresh shoots and blooming buds,
mating birds and fish,
clear dew of melted snow -
and showered kisses
on virigin ground.

He turned her over
again.

He thrust himself inside,
flying to the zenith of ecstasy.
He moaned.
Only him,
for she was a mute,
tarnished doll against dust.
He bent over and danced
with her tongue:
a waltz,
then a wilder spin
until his saliva dripped
down her neck in thirst.
His lips travelled
to the buds of her breasts
and nibbled at
the edges of her ears.

She was his gift to himself
unwrapped under
the audience of the moon
and in stealth he abandoned her,
to which she returned
whence she came:

the earth.