On the edge of a desolated garden lay the headstone of an unmarked grave.
Untouched, yet clean of debris and foliage as I lay myself beside it and softly caress the freshly turned soil.
No one remembers the name of the dead man buried beneath, found eaten from the inside by insects whom followed him in creeping whispers.
His face was nothing but a memory, his voice only now a final breath.
Yet here I am still, waiting by for just one more chance to breach through and feel his skin.
Feel his eyes on me and gaze full of nothing but love so desperate.
Begging me to stay as I always would.
Now he was nothing more than a corpse being devoured in an abyss of soil and rot.
My legs skitter and follow the pieces that remained of the man I once knew, yet he had laid paralyzed by what I had become.
Once upon a time when I still remained human I held him in my arms.
Sinking my fingers deeper into his fragile bones as I let myself dive in.
Worms and cockroaches wriggling and tearing his flesh as we embraced and he never let go, for as I was nothing but an insect.
For I was nothing but a parasite.
The bugs of my body devoured his fragile form with a ravenous desire that could never be satisfied with what little he could give.
What so much I would take as he never denied me. Even in death I still crave him. I wait for my lifespans to cripple away to dust.
I was his parasite. Never wanting anything more than to be his.
Yet a parasite I shall still be, falling apart from the carnage I myself created and become one with the dirt beneath to be part of him once again.