Hand reach into my throat,

clawing their way to my heart.

Red blooms under their attention,

as they slither through this maze

of veins and vessels.

Slick hands grab ahold of my still heart,

squeezing it manually.

Once, twice, thrice,

a soothing rhythm in a space,

long devoid of music.

Yet, no amount of squeezing

is enough to make my heart start beating.

No amount of salt kisses

can wash away the rotten taste of decay.

The red tint on my lips,

my lover's desperate last attempt to lay claim,

is not enough to erase

the blue mark left

by Death's kiss.