I sleep until my wife comes home. She cuddles me tightly from behind, wrapping her arms under my arms and squeezing my shoulders. I feel her kiss my shoulder and I roll over.
She is beneath me.
I smile and move in to kiss her neck, gently.
But as I move my face towards her soft, sweet neck, the skin becomes wrinkled, as does all the skin on her body,age suddenly shows it blemishes on her young body, her breasts sag and her face droops.
Then as quickly as the first, her skin breaks, and bleeds, and oozes, before it slowly disintegrates, like paper in a fire it thins and shrivels and dies away revealing bare muscle which follows suit of the skin, it shrinks and turns a sickly purple grey before tearing and ripping and barely being anything more than thin, loose sheets.
And so I am left over on the skeleton of my wife, the neck and jaw hanging loosely, the empty crevasse of the eye sockets, the last remnants of the eyeball drying up, turning to ash.
Her skeleton is a desert, dry and barren and then it is no longer a desert because it no longer is.
In a cloud of dust it disappears and she is gone. But I do not cry, not any more. I go back to sleep, knowing that it is what it is, and that she has been gone for many years.
