Embrace

After many lifetimes, someone excavates my plot and opens the vault. Disappointed in what he finds, he lets the rain fall through my sockets and ribcage. My skeleton ends up in a museum, in an exhibit beside the pianist. I wax poetic on laying with my beloved, but hear snickers: on the other side of her remains is the skeleton of a sleazebag from the hospice. How dare he? How could she? I rise to my feet — a hard task without neurons — and yell, “Go to hell, putain!” Outrage, that a skeleton speaks out of turn. A reporter holds out a microphone, and a child asks for an autograph. Bony arms crossed, I lie down and accept my role as a cuckold. Fin.