My razorblade draws bright patterns on his chest,
This poor boy who bleeds for you unknowingly.
His eyes hold love and trust as I drink liquid life From the wound above his heart.
In his warm Pacific blue eyes I see your grey Atlantic,
Blurring my eyes,
Bending the lines,
His hair darkens to a more familiar shade in the candle's light.
I taste our song in his blood.
All that you became, but none of what you were.
Your voice in my head,
I bite into his flesh;
His quiet gasp is not your shiver of pleasure.
His kind hands are not the ones that cut off my breathing.
The sweat on his skin never mixes with mine.
When he leaves after I feed,
I smell you on my clothes.
I close my eyes and die again.