The tousled, rumpled folds of the sheets have long-since smoothed into the punctilious, spotless planes of their original intention. The beads of sweat which once stained the white linens as though they were drops of dew, caught in a net cast at morning, have become a misty dream of evaporation. The bed is bone-dry.
Her bones were once wet with rushing, blushing blood.
The blankets will not slake their thirst with any more nectar pearls. They are left to feast on glassy hearts and cold eyes until they fall into dust, as lifeless as their sustenance.
Her lips are wrinkled and faint, the crystalline river of the desert depths refusing to meet them and be her oasis.
Returned from their abberation, the bedspreads resume their patterned lives. They are free of any thought, any wondering as to the routine. All is the same harsh shade of grey. The moonlight pierces just as sharply as the sunrays. There is no soft gaze of silver beams, no oxygen to feed a fire.
Her lungs shrivel, crushing her heart in their deflation; black stones to occupy oxygen's gap in the air.
The pillows pretend to forget their desire, folding over at a shallow grave. To exist is satisfactory. They are more than a shadow in a land of bright phantoms. They are more than a bubble in a land of hollow ghosts.
Her skin diminishes into hues of snow and collapses upon her blanched skeleton.
She grows ever colder as the embers die one by one, leaving frigid ash to catch the wind and sail away. She is Galatea, lost by Pygmalion and fallen from Aphrodite's favor, the ivory slithering over her skin to reclaim her. She cannot move as death wraps her in its perfumes.
These haunters of dawn and dusk linger at her bedside. They hide in cracks and silhouettes, waiting to run icy claws down her spine and snag her heart. She slips under her bone-dry sheets but the demons leave her free, for her bones were once wet with shining tears too and she has washed away the memories.