A love that clings beyond death.

In the dim corridors of my heart, necrophilia became a word for that impossible devotion we offer to what can no longer return our touch — a longing wrapped in silence, like kissing the dust on a forgotten monument. I loved your absence the way mourners love cold marble, tracing every contour of what once lived, worshiping the echo rather than the form. It was never about the body, only the ghost of warmth, the ache of remembering what time had already taken. In this strange reverence, this tender devotion to what has slipped beyond breath, I found a kind of dark holiness — not desire, but an aching loyalty to what the world has already buried. And yet my love grew heavier, more consuming, curling around your memory like ivy strangling stone; I clung to every remnant of you with the desperation of a soul starving for a heartbeat that would never return. Your silence became my cathedral, your absence my altar, and in that quiet ruin. I let myself be devoured by the impossible hope that devotion alone could wake the dead.  I sank deeper into the tomb of my own longing, letting it coil around my bones until flesh and thought were indistinguishable from shadow. Every whispered memory of you became a chain, binding me to the silent world where the unliving linger, their breath stolen yet their presence absolute. I wandered corridors of night that had no end, my devotion bleeding into the stones, the wind, the frost — as if the very world had become a mausoleum for my love. I kissed the absence like a relic, drank the cold air that carried your echo, and let the hollows inside me swell with the impossible weight of never-touching. Even death itself seemed too light, too fleeting, to contain the gravity of this desire; I became a vessel for a devotion so complete that it devoured my reflection, my shadow, my soul, leaving only the hollow flame of longing to burn eternally where you once were.