Her body like a whiplash, cutting his skin open with her every touch. The red marks from her lipstick on his neck like burn marks from a fire. Is this really how it all ends? Her kiss, an instant death to his poor weak heart. Surely there’s a way out. Surely he will not let this be the end of all ends. ‘Surely…’ he thought ‘… I’m the luckiest. To die in her arms… What an honor.'
i.s. // poem – do all men find death as welcoming as he did?









