She is not dead, far from it.
She is in love,
but the pains of her days
are the grim reminder
that she is not dead.

She lies upon a bier
to not feel the memories
of loves lost or unrequited,
shallow sex without love,
betrayal and abandonment.

The daily grind
of her motherly chores
and the nagging weakness
in her blood and bones
are the canvas
upon which she paints
any joy she can make or find.

There is that love
so distant -
to be touched with voice alone.
That impossible mouth
can bring mirth or temporary surcease,
as if she slips momentarily
from the cold slab bier
into satin sheets;
coddled in the crook
of a warm belly
and clutching hands.

And then there is touch.

Every day she has him near
at least once while her fingers play,
probe and vibrate.
HE touches her deeper
and makes her gasp
with his impossible thumb;
cooing all the while, "YES"!

But she does cum,
tossing and grunting;
her fingers slick and fragrant,
plunging and pummeling.

Every too rare
she lies to the world and disappears
to hibernate with him
and rejuvenate for the voids between.

Even as his voice and his image feed her,
she can now feed him.
Straightaway she unfurls her magnificent breasts
and, like her baby, she suckles him to life.
Even as he drains her, he fills her
with fingered creamy screams and silly food.

She probes him deep with her tongue and fingers
trying to find and understand his love for her.
She pummels and bites , seeking confession.
She rides him, face flushed,
breasts flailing, to break him.
He laughs and kisses her gently.

They can not marry.
But they kneel before that bier
in a sacrament more deep
because it is more dark
than the gray that makes their days.
What was a bier becomes a pyre
upon which doubt and despair
are sacrificed so that
"For what?" becomes "Why not?"

[Note of thanks to LoisLane for editorial assistance.]