It seemed like a good idea at the time

It seemed like a good idea at the time,
the immortality, the eternal youth.
My mentor reassured me with her crimson lips,
her caresses, her murmured endearments,
all the while stroking my beardless cheek
with her blood-red nails,
nuzzling my pulsating throat,
‘You will be mine, forever.’
And then she sank her ivory fangs into my neck,
and drank deep, deeply, deepest,
drawing out my very soul.

That night I died, only to be born again
by the light of the next rising moon.
No Christ figure I, never again would I set foot
in a house of worship or defile a temple of faith.
The daily company of men was forbidden me;
I sought nightly those of my own kind
and those foolish enough to venture forth,
becoming appeasement for my unceasing hunger,
my insatiable lust for life.

Time passes, the world changes,
mountains crumble, oceans rise;
I remain the same.
I do not change, I cannot die;
my mentor’s words were spoken in truth:
forever young, forever untouched by the passage of time.
Everyone I know, everyone I ever loved is dead.
No one loves such a one as myself.

You cannot see me, as I stand behind you
while you brush your golden hair,
paint your perfect lips,
not reflected in any mirror,
unfelt by your beglamoured senses.
Your beauty, your innocence, are all that I crave,
yet what I desire most is your death,
to drink in your essence, your soul,
to feel the life pour out of you,
to hold you tenderly as your veins empty into mine,
to watch fondly as your rosy glow is replaced by an icy pallor.

And yet with your death I am deprived of your life.
The warmth I would swallow, the blood
filling me with your essence, your very soul,
will in turn guarantee that I shall never have you again.
I wait for you to unclasp the heavy silver chain,
the one that encircles the throat I yearn for,
that keeps me from reaching out and touching
the very thing that I desire most,
and pray that you do not.

Yes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now, as I cannot have your death,
I desire my own; and yet, I cannot die.
I cannot die.

stem the flow of time

Time is measured in the breaths and heartbeats
of the one whose warmth envelopes you on winter nights,
whose arms comfort you when grief threatens to overwhelm
with the sheer weight of its undeniable and unbearable presence,
whose soft words banish the voices of derision
and smooth the erosion from gnawing doubts.
Time flows like the inhalations and exhalations of the one you love,
who loves you,
and when that heart ceases its beating,
time stops as well.

The Belly Dancer

She moves,
    sinuous
       as a snake,
         sensuously,
       serpent arms,
     undulating belly,
  shimmying hips;
she weaves through
the crowd with barely
   any room between
       ogling admirers
         as she dances
          on bare
            feet.

The Missile

That snowball that I saved,
proof of last winter’s bounty
sealed in a zip-lock bag,
stored against summer’s heat in the freezer,
between the lambchop and the frozen peas,
awaiting the hot bare neck
of an unsuspecting victim,
the perfect target for deployment,
ice crystals melting into rivulets of cold
running down sweaty back, moist cleavage,
over burning shoulders,
is gone,
melted,
less than a handful of dirty water
in a zip-lock bag,
the victim of power outages.

The Stars are Falling

snow
        drifting
                    downward,

gently, oh so gently
                                falling,

dropping from a sky so black
where no stars twinkle
like diamonds on black velvet,
no pewter plate rests on an ebony table,
only snow
                falls...

glittering flakes—six points each—
in the light of the street lamp
where I stand,
head bare,
as they land in my hair,
on my lashes,
melt on my cheeks and on my lips
as I gaze skywards,
watching the stars leave their home,
depart from the depths of blackest space,
to
    fall
          at my feet,

glittering.