It's getting late.
The undead are having a night on the town.
The rustling of feet fill the evening air;
it's a dance of shuffle and scurry.
Don't be scared. That's only your heart
beating faster and faster.
No one knows we're here.
We made love three times already.
That's how bored we are.
Remember when you had things to do?
Remember when I had a schedule to follow?

Remember little Susie,
and Timothy?...

Me neither.

The scars never go away.
The past had it's moments of pleasure
as they did with pain;
and not much of it has really changed.

Don't be afraid.
It's just getting late.
It's only ***** fingernails clawing at paint.
The old door rattles, and it's **** shakes.
Someone wants in on our love.
Or that's what we always thought it was.

Let's make love another time.

The scars across your body
tell me the greatest bed time stories.