When I write about somebody,
making a statement about the experience,
I'm also asking a question:

Do I dare to share my half of that time with you,
with you?

Nights that meant nothing to you were so different on my end.
Like Dracula's little play thing Lucy it only took one bite
and I was yours.

Doomed to wake in the middle of the night and dream of your fangs.
Because even though it was new, and dangerous, and little bit scary
it was familiar, and oh so very good.

But that's just it, was it new and good, and scary for you?
Or was I just another late night snack?
Something to fill you up and keep you going?

If you're reading this here it won't mean anything to you,
just another poem in an endless list about her, she, and you.

But what if I gave it context, proper nouns,
wrote it down on paper with a fancy pen
and slipped it into your mailbox like a high school kid
too afraid to tell you to your face
but too hypnotized by bite marks on my neck to stop.

Would it mean something then?
Because there are marks on your neck too,
and I can still choose to drink.