As strange as we, your portrait on me.

Paint your feminine face on my pale skin, in that place just above my navel and just below the ripples of my ribs.

Mix the blood I kept with your medium red Van Gogh and trace my veins with the gentlest of brush strokes.

Feel my pulse and move your hand in synchrony. "We're still alive," you'd say. "But the dead is dear to me," I'd say.

Look my darling, such a mess we made. Red pigments on the floor seeping through the cold, stealing our breath away.

Photos by Czar Kristoff. More here. Visit his blog here.