He looks into my soul longingly,
As if he wants to touch it,
To own it,
My porcelain skin and smell my ebony hair,
To run his finger threw this mass of curls,
To taste the milky white flesh of my neck,
The soft slope of my shoulder,
And the rouge plump lips,
His eyes are wanting, and yet not pleasing,
But powerful and demanding,
He is telling himself that he will have me,
That I will be his,
A knowing of the future,
No matter how much I run, in my teasing way,
He will embrace me and I will be his flower,
I will never wither
Unlike him, I am human,
Fragile,
I have life and that is what attracts him all the more,
He can smell that essences, that ebb,
I have the rushing wind
I have the bright summer,
I have the taste of snow,
And he has the whispers of death

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