Two lovers, eternally tied,
Lie back against the floor of a sealed room,
Hearing only the crackling fire,
The shutters hammering in the wind,
And their own staggered breaths.
One lover, cursed with contagions,
His flesh untouchable, takes a brush,
And with a delicate stroke paints his skin
As the other looks on patiently,
Stroke after stroke after stroke.
Completely covered finally, a man sealed,
Waits by the fire for the layers to set,
Catching glimpses of the flames in his ring.
When the second skin moulds he takes her hand,
Done a hundred times,
Kisses softly with coated lips,
Caresses with plastered palms,
Strokes gently with painted fingertips;
And the two lovers love, but never once touch.