The lousy lover, jaded by passion just under her bitten ingrown nails slipped into sheets that were not satin, like in any other story of romance, but bed sheets patterned with the frost bitten, jagged polka dots of his blood; the remains of someone who hid the sun in his eyes behind lashes of steel plated charcoal.

Fire opal roses sprouted from her heart as she continued to flick Advil into the trash can which was already nearly filled with milk/cream bones and a slightly illuminated skull, where such a sun would be hidden away by a daisy crown of dirty flaxen hair and lashes of steel plated charcoal.