These fingertips of mine,
accepting of blood,
map a pathway
from the watery deep of me
to right under this bridge.

The blade,
long and drawn out,
finds purpose in its kiss,
quenching itself,
subconsciously,
every time it hits the red.

And like a convoluted river,
beautifully strange
and hidden in the wood,
she never knew my face.

For the lady
I gave no time to squeal,
this shall be her
final resting place.