Chik-Chik-BLAM: A Headshot Love Story

Realistically speaking,
if zombies infect the planet,
you and I will probably
succumb along with
everyone else on the globe.
We'll shuffle along,
chiefly concerned only
with occipital lobes and
hypothalami and
how best to get them
between our teeth.
There will be no room
in the decaying ventricles
of our quieted hearts
for love and romance
and certainly not for
the quick heated flush
of lover's passion, and yet...

You will chase down
a former bank CEO,
tackle him to the ground
in an abandoned supermarket
parking lot, and as he tries
to scrabble out from under
your grimy, beautiful fingers,
you will gnaw politely through
his face. Fifteen feet away,
I will be busy feasting on
a soccer mom just past her prime
in the garden center;
your executive's final shriek
will distract me, momentarily,
from Mrs. Johnson's spleen,
and in that moment,
when your glassy dead eyes
meet what's left of mine,
I think I'll fall in love with you again,
inexplicably, without reason,
against everything the scientists
or the horror movies or the videogames say:
I will fall in love with you,
with the grey pallor of your skin,
half-undressed and half-unfleshed,
with your every shamble and moan,
and even the cute little way you grin
after crunching a breather's windpipe.

I guess what I'm saying is this:
Zombie Cupid with a shotgun
got a pair of perfect headshots
when he shot at you and me.