I'm leaving, he says.
You're dead like the rest of them.
You worry about bills
and groceries
and how we can't afford take-out.
You make friends with the mechanic
and the plumber.
I can't live with a corpse.

Still, as he moves to walk past,
he grabs a fistful of my hips
blesses the stray dogs,
pulls
pushes
same routine.

Old dance of entangled limbs
forgive and forget,
we'll get there again, but
at least we both feel alive
this way.

I twist a carnivore smile.
Are you finished yet?