There was an undeniable truth to the fact she was a killer. Her eyes spoke of it, smile suggested it, and as for her figure, well… yum. She was everything a spark ignited, everything that made a dark dream dire. Her allure offset her demon. Her magnificence demanded respect. She was a little boy’s nightmare and a grown man’s fantasy, all this and more. Yet like all mysteries wrapped in purple, silk bows, she required exploring. What was the point in excess if one couldn’t partake of it? What was the point in deliverance if one had never needed delivering? I partook, she delivered. I lost, she won.

Like Oceans

If gratitude was an ocean, I’d have poured myself upon her. To see her float in my waves, drown in my eyes as I did hers, hang weightless for all eternity in swirls of aquamarine, a price worth paying, I think.

We met by the ocean; it seemed perfect symmetry it ending there, too. I wrapped her in a warm embrace, took a breath and waded into the waves. She soon quietened, her screams lost to the breakers, then depths, then deep.

At the end, just before the darkness took us, she smiled. I hoped she’d forgiven me, blessed us both in her way. Then again, she might just have been glad to be rid. I couldn’t blame her, I was.

Dead Hearts

Dead hearts don’t beat,
Just strive to remember how.
When time stops,
Memories overlap like autumn leaves;
They mix and combine,
Suffuse each other with irregular somethings,
Tiny flecks of uncertainties,
Fiddling for those moments most precious
From that veil of lost things,
Lost hopes,
Lost forevers.
They wait for something to stir them,
Move them,
Force them to remember.
And when they do,
When those snippets of eternity return,
They’ll clasp them close, impassioned.
It is a waiting game,
That’s all,
Waiting for that pulse,
That rhythm of life,
That love,
That spark;
It consumes them,
As you consume me.