Soft like Death,
Tasting my skin,
Scarce with droplets,
Of bitterness,
And sorrow,

Your lips warm,
Like velvet blood,
Quietly concealing,
Quintessence,
And poison,

Hands, winter chill,
Old, naive fingers,
Murderous in theory,
In practice,
Full of stealth,

For lips, and hands,
And fabled tongues,
Soft like Death,
Tasting my skin