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I think Ghost really likes the fact that you’re going to die. Not today, probably not tomorrow and probably not by his hands unless you force him to it, but I think he likes to touch you and remember you’re a corpse in potentia. He’ll miss you when you go if you go before him, but he’ll die young himself and it’s nice to know you’ll be with him then, or join him there sooner rather than later. Nothing lasts, that’s what he keeps telling himself about so many things. Life’s short. This too shall pass. Thank fuck.
I think he likes to pull your lips back, the way they’re going to pull back on their own and bare your teeth if you die in a dry place. Such a nice smile. I think he likes to run his hands over you, spread you open and find all the little points of entry for rot and maggots. He’s not much better than either, and he’s entered every orifice he can fit himself into.
I think he likes to drag the pad of his thumb over the inside of your cheeks, test the stretch, how easy it’d give way. So expressive for him, so soft. He tests your tongue with his fingers in your mouth, cramming it open, stretching the jawbone that’d break away so easy, making you drool and look up at him, waiting patiently for him to finish examining one of his many favourite cavities.
He knows your tongue tastes sweet and eventually so will some other lucky creature - a fox maybe, a rat, a dog... nice and tender. Good eating. Pretty eyes of a pretty bird, eventually becoming a part of another bird if you die close to nature. A raven might be a little too heavy handed to hope for, but maybe a crow or a magpie. Magpies are thieving birds with a rattle of a laugh of a call. White and black, his colours.
I think he likes to run his hands over your guts, press into them despite your bitching, thinking ahead to when you’ll bloat up with gasses, pregnant with your own death. Life, death, tomato, tomato. It doesn’t take a lot of rot to realise there’s no real line to be drawn between one state and the other. One eats the other. The first breath is just a countdown to the last, and air will still move through your ribs when you fall apart for the last time, and the next last time, and the next last time. Whistling through your ribcage.
He hopes you won’t be cremated. It’d be a waste to rush such a pretty thing. Hopes you won’t be buried, either, but if he’s still around the day that happens, he can always dig you up. Could be interesting, to bring his life back to the surface again but from the outside, next time. And you are his life, which makes him almost hate you sometimes, because he didn’t want to be bound to the earth like that again. That’s why it’s such a comfort to know you won’t last.