posted on Oct, 23 2009 @ 03:37 PM
When he was younger, before the transition,
the hunger was non-existent.
When she was younger,
her presence drove him mad . . . with passion.
On a warm and windy autumn night,
with leaves blowing around them in spirical eddies,
they defied tradition,
under a full moon,
and became lovers.
Lovers, . . . under the covers, . . of wind and dark.
Later, one was chosen to be bitten,
the other . . ., its dream now smitten . .
Every night she slits her wrist,
in anticipation of his bliss,
when he drinks her blood and howls the night,
scared of nothing, but . . . morning light.
She sustains him, keeps him well,
He adores her . . but cannot tell,
if she still loves him.
He will not bite her neck,
he will not take her,
. . . she is still free,
he only asks for her blood now.
When he was younger, there was no hunger.
She has not abandoned him.
As she gets older . . he dies a little bit every day . . but stays young.