It's cold in my head
Though the words still burn.
It's hard without him here
I thought I had learned,
But the emptiness wraps all around.

It's cold in my heart,
And even though he is there,
I looked
And I am nowhere to be found.

His neck ceased its throbbing
against my canines;
I knew he was dead.
Black oozed, red ran, yellow curdled.
I relished in the sensation, not the flavor.
The sweet honey of life drank warm,
then flowed through me icy cold.
My bloodied fingers shut his forlorn eyes
and then there was finally peace.
Privacy.
Dipped, scarlet hands washed over in gold
by the light of streetlights overhead.
So I left.
Wobbling alongside the darkness,
head rushing,
eyes lulling
I caught a whiff of something delectable.
Fresh paint draped over a moldy brick wall.
I looked over to see it was true.
Sanctified by a glossy, white sheet
the wall waited for me.
I grinned.
Stumbling over I grabbed a can leftover and began to pry.
One nail, two nails, only three torn off in struggle,
but the payoff, oh, so satisfying.
The untouched liquid within beckoned to me.
I submerged a finger, then the hand.
Mixing to make a frothy pink I was pleased.
Stroke after stroke I fixed the wall before me.
Streaks of red and white, but over all
a glorious rosy hue.
I smiled back at the smiling face.
I went home.
Triumphant.