There's a grandeur in our twisted romance, a doomed glamour. You slap my face and spit in my food. I invent florid insults, precisely engineered to dig into your deepest anxieties. In our ruin, we dance around each other, blades in our quivering fists, fingers clenched so tightly that their very tissues have merged and hardened. Occasionally, we blindly manage to make contact, slicing.
Years hence, when we have fallen to the ground and lost our eyes and tongues and the vital essence in each of us has leaked out and commingled in the parched soil, our final resting place will be marked by a wretched tree.
Our flesh freed from the disintegrated muscle and bone dust inside, we will be found by a curious wanderer who will mistake our flesh for an ancient scroll, our lacerations as a story written the glyphs of a lost language.