My wife carries a basket of poises to hide the stench of death on her person not that my end would leave a scent stronger than her perfume. Even now, beneath the cold soft dirt where worms and beetles crawl through the sockets of my skull, the scent of her flora crowns her like a nymph. Deceives me So I wish to fall into her again, into a not so loving embrace laced with agony. The last image I see is the sharpened steel through my chest painting the bone-white of my ribs red.