She wondered if it was a dream, and perhaps it was
for in the morning, there was no sign of him
except a smear of lipstick across her cheek
and twisted sheets at the end of the bed.
And lying there, naked,
she felt for blood curdled against the white
and it was there, along with the ghost of a smirk
that whispered along her wrists.
He had a knack for magic,
and she wondered if he had pulled another disappearing act
with her virginity in his pocket,
in the same purple ribbon she presented it in.
Perhaps he'd be back, next sunset,
with his skeleton-leaf shadow,
and pin her to the bedstead;
tell me another story.
And there'd be hunger in his eyes,
enough to satisfy her until the
next time he stole in through the window.
And then she'd know she was dreaming.