He stands at your bedroom door while you're at the edge of your bed, staring at him. There are wilted white lilies on top of your bedside drawer. He sits at your bed, not too close to you, but close enough you can feel the heat radiate from his skin. You feel like this distance is too far, you want his skin to clash against yours, his lips at the nape of your neck. The street lights pour from your window, his face illuminated with it. His face looks so innocent, yet deadly because of the light. Red for passion? no. Red for blood. Red for deadly. This is not love. This is destruction and pain. He reaches out for you, and you moved too eagerly. He holds you without care, his nails scratches your back, too deep. You're in too deep. Red for stop. His lips crushes against yours, and he tears off your dress, and he kisses your neck, and you realized that he has your heart in his hands.  You didn't pay attention to details. Red for deadly. You're going crazy and wild, you are empty handed. You finally realized that his ribs are intact while yours is wide open. Red for too late. There's a broken vase with wilted white lilies on the floor, and his lips ******.