Rotting Love

We stand in the desert, mindlessly, yet knowingly our dusty minds wander. I cannot feel you, I've long since numbed, but when I turn to look your sand encrusted, dried hand is still in mine.

There is no food left, we have no goal. Like sheep we follow and stray from whatever we see moving. Nothing moving with the characteristics of life. There is no way to show our love but the groans and pets we painfully manage.
We stray from the deserted, lifeless pile of swaying bodies staring at the sun, the sand, the sky, the clouds, and the bugs that we could never catch and that would do little more then fly from our patched stomachs.

There is no purpose, no happening, no sadness, and no happiness. Just the fading feeling of connection and a faint consciousness that allows up to wander aimlessly even after our legs have rotted beneath us. That, and also the feeling of responsibility to each other. Like jewels we guard our shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingers. For once they're gone like the rest of our grotesque figure, we can never be connected but for the moment when our dusty corpse's finally starve after death and collapse on top of each other.

A zombie's love is described as just a pure stupidity and what's left of our recollection of humans need to procreate. We cannot express our experiences;

Nobody wants to die alone, even if they're already dead.