Final Fantasy

Aeris is dead.
I'm fucking a girl
who was dressed like Aeris,
but
Aeris Gainsborough is dead.

I think this pot
may have gone to my head
but
Christ
Aeris is dead.
They look so alike;
with one coax
of the bow
the rumpled slough of pink and red
hissed right
off her shoulders.
Her mom helped her make it
she said.
I think this pot
may have gone to our heads.

There are clothes
strewn like crash debris
at the end of the bed
and we are corpses
in a hedge
but
Aeris is dead.
Her skin is brie pale,
peach fuzzed,
pinholed with cocoa moles.
You misled
me, she says.
I am two knuckles deep.
She grins
like someone half asleep
and nips my jugular,
mostly canine, an edge
of incisor.
Our clothes are heaped
at the end of the bed.

She warns me
that last time she bled
but not to worry.
Don't worry.
And she smiles
as if I might worry
and I think
who cares, now that
Aeris is dead.
When she first unpapoosed
her gibbous bust
I couldn't help thinking
that I think too much;
I think she thought
my thinking face
was lust.
But instead
with every thrust
I think now
of a brow
cold as Siberia;
I think of cracked materia
and a downy phoenix
of gold and white and red
that could not save her
that failed to save her
last time she bled.

I watch the clock
while she's giving head.
Aeris Gainsborough is dead.