Work Text:
The bride from the Third comes in mourning.
Under the greasepaint you can tell she’s beautiful, veil perfumed with the scent of lilies. In chapel lights her shine resembles grave goods. She is a monument to sororal grief. You are a temple to the death of a generation.
Her breasts are soft. She sighs at all the right times and says the wrong name. Afterwards, her hair is a golden waterfall across your lap. Cold breezes rake the room. A skeletal hand opens the bed’s curtains.
“I touched her first,” rasps the corpse.
You say nothing. She is not there.