A poem I wrote

My wistful wanderer
of smooth tile floors,
They become porcelain at
your sweet white shoes.

Soft wisps of white-blonde hair
curl at your face,
A personal angel
of death for me.

You know my lungs are full,
but still you speak,
I gurgle out replies
to your blank warmth.

Cover me with your form,
A blanket, too,
Dreamily I can gaze
with fevered stare.

You are my fever, dear,
Your routine role
to help ease a dead man,
Just one quick peck.

Nevermind, the light fades,
Day-shift over,
Ice queen night watch awaits,
Don't leave me now.

Hear the steps down aisles,
One final check
to see if prisoners
still breathe, like me.

I see you beside me,
Truly soft smile,
I try in vain to smirk,
You don't mind.

You do not feign sadness,
Just what I need,
My pretty nymph, last breath,
The stage goes black.