Your bone structure is lovely,
but you’re just a shriveled up, old skeleton,
waiting to be excavated someday
and finally be famous
in that très ironique fashion
you’ve so desired;
your skull smiling
(even though you were only ever brooding in photos)
in some disgustingly sterile museum
where they will pay to gawk at you
and think only of your bones,
never the things they carried.
But, I’ll love you anyway,
even when you’re dust.