flesh of my flesh

As Horace contemplated the yellow-green ball of quivering snot upon his nicotine stained finger, he thought he would burst with joy, or if not, then implode with sadness. Ah, the pangs of love: the fasts, the slows... the highs and lows... the eyes and nose.

"Snotty," exclaimed Horace poignantly, "dost thou still love me as I do thee? Wherefore thy cold silence, my darling, why dost thou respondeth not? When one has nothing nice to say, it's better to say nothing at all, as my dearest ma-ma was wont to say, god rest her blessed soul... Is that why you won't speak to me, Snottums, my darling?"

Horace smiled bravely through his tears. "It doesn't matter, Snottums, I'll always love you, whether you're quiet or noisy, dried or quivery, brown or yellowy."

The snot was dying---breathing its last moisture into the stale air of Horace's bedroom, its life force evaporating.

"No! Snotty, no! Don't leave me, please don't leave me," whimpered Horace heartbrokenly, "I'll not allow it, I'll follow thee to the very gates of hell my darling. We must never be separated, never. We must be one: flesh of my flesh, snot of my snot..."

And with that Horace put his finger in his mouth and sucked and licked his lover till death them did not part.