Under the neon lights, he basks where the moon goes,
his pale glow illuminating alabaster skin.
It’s like watching cattle if cattle could dance,
with black leather contrasting against those-
candy apple red-tipped fingernails darting about, drawing little trails.
He follows, a shade, a shape, unseen as the rave rages and laser lights blaze. He grabs her and places a pallid digit on her frigid lips,
“Shh, be not afraid,”
his voice with a Methuselah accent, ancient leather-scented.
Like a lion to a gazelle, he rips into her nape and escapes to the alleyway.
“Be not afraid,”
he whispers as she awakens the next day,
the sun blistering her eyes in a baleful glow.
She now abhors the light that once adorned her soul,
all she can remember is the pleasure,
the pangs of ******* splendor in his death grip,
as her vitae drained to a drunkard,
reddest wines divined to replenish his luster.
As hers dulls into ashen white ivory,
she is in love with the notion of death, as he kills to stay alive.