A summer dress, perhaps deserves a summerish redress.
In the witching hour, solitude's domain, there is naught but I, and the white-hot eclipse for my eye.
I have one hand beneath your neck, and another behind your knees. In these gloves, I will drown and resurrect my fair dress, one-and-only Sunday Best, sodium hypochlorite cocktail mess. My alternative hydrotherapy is a remedy from my enemy.
You traffic through this well of hell in ease. A fire drunken on the Lethe. Deliquesce in clinical scents.
Your skin thrives on the purge, but mine cannot survive.