Treasure of the dead

Every night you used to sink asleep onto my skin
Like a warm foam
You were so weak and vulnerable
And used to curve at the ends on one side
Like insects do when they die
You asked me to caress off your body
All the remains of the day
With the tips of my fingers
But it was so soft always
I couldn't find any trace of the pains and torments
You were telling me about
I started not to believe you anymore
And picked bits of skin off your chest with my nails
Long after you already fell asleep
Like a crow does with its dead bodies.
When I first thought about writing this poem
About how you used to sleep on my body
I thought of it with quiet longing
And love so sweet
That, in my mind, the movement you made while asleep
Was that of a restless baby mumbling in a dream
And the touch of my hand of the raising rhythm of your heart
That of a trembling little bug
On the surface where she rested every night
Like landing in a nest.
Now I recall your mumbling as the snoring of a grumpy old man
Mr. Scrooge, that would be you,
However much I gave you out of me
You always wanted more
And hid it under your mattress at night.
You died with it there
Never once
Looking at it.