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

-artist boy-

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.